Special
by silentlysnowing
Summary: A collection of oneshots focusing on the ever-changing Sylar.
1. Special

**Disclaimer: **_I don't own Heroes. Obviously._

_Takes place after "The Second Coming"_

* * *

He had always been attracted to the different, the unusual, the one-of-a-kind. As a child, he'd dreamed of a better way of living, of a world where life wouldn't be completely predictable, where the rules were ever-changing, where he was the main player.

And he knew that his new life was everything he'd dreamed of and more, exotic, exciting, with enough challenges to last him a lifetime. There was a delicate balance of power in the new world he had entered, and he knew from the start that he had the capability not only to be talented, but to be the _best_. He could find multiple talents where others only had one; he could even bring powers to their full capabilities, explore them, find hidden depths that their original users would never have dreamed of.

But there were others, other powerful ones that could make a stand against him. Peter Petrelli, his 'light' counterpoint, still inexperienced and surviving through sheer persistence and latent ability. The Haitian, who had the horrifying ability to make him normal, take away everything that made life worth living.

And then, her. The cheerleader.

He despised cheerleaders, in general. They were symbolic of the life he had left behind, mindless and only concerned with their unimportant whims and details. He had taken it as a slap in the face that a cheerleader would be granted one of the most useful powers of them all, the power to make one invincible, untouchable, effectively _immortal_. He had thought nothing then of her necessary death.

And, at first, he hadn't been surprised by her reactions. She had run from him. She had relied on the protection of Petrelli, had taken the passive route in avoiding him. Her only redeeming action was to return to her friend in need, to keep Petrelli alive.

However, as he continued travelling, continued becoming more powerful, learning, growing, he also continued hearing about her. She was stubborn, determined, and constantly testing her limits. In fact, in a singularly remarkable way, she was… different.

So he decided to draw the game out further. He waited, through health and illness, waited for her many protectors to let their guard down, to leave her alone.

Then, with third time's luck, he took a chance.

She didn't act like a cheerleader. She should've screamed and cried, should've run and cowered at the first sight of him. Instead, she _fought_. She fought pathetically, true, for how could a person who was built to be passive really attempt to hurt someone else? But he was intrigued by her persistence, and found himself reaching a conclusion even before he made the decisive strike.

She couldn't die. Therefore, she would lose nothing through his examination, while he would gain- well, everything. There were many people who often attempted either to shoot him or run swords through him, and it would be rather convenient if he could stop worrying about them. Still, the fact that she wouldn't die made it easier for him to learn her power, though he wasn't sure why he would care either way.

But he found it truly remarkable that she not only stayed alive during his examination, but also managed to stay _conscious_. He found himself talking to her, treating her as a peer, an equal, a- friend?

Well, he didn't need to go that far. He had been poking around her brain, after all, clearly the dominant figure in the scene.

Once he had finished, he could have let her remain unconscious on the table, could have left her there for her parents to find. But there was something that made him pause, and consider. She was still a teenager, barely an adult. She obviously craved dignity, and loathed showing signs of weakness in any way.

He wasn't sure why he encouraged that, enabled it, except that he knew that she was… special. She deserved better, like he always had.

He'd have to keep an eye on Claire Bennet in the future. There was no telling what she might do, how she might affect his eternal quest to become the strongest, the best.

And if he had other reasons for watching her, there was no reason to admit them, even to himself.


	2. Immortal

_Yeah, I know... this was supposed to stay a oneshot. But future Sylar/Gabriel is far too awesome, and deserves his own piece. So, I might be turning this into a collection of oneshots, Sylar-centric. Maybe. And also, thanks for the reviews! I really appreciate it._

_Takes place after "I Am Become Death"_

* * *

"You killed him."

Claire paused, not bothering to look back. Knox was dead. Daphne had run- she might have been fast enough- but she hadn't come back, not yet. Past-Peter was alive, but barely, his empathetic ability slow to heal the rest of his body. There was only one person who had survived, only one other person who _could_ have survived.

"I didn't kill him, Sylar," she responded, her voice as cold as she could make it. "Do you think I wanted him to die? Do you think I'm completely heartless?"

"You certainly know how to act it," he mumbled.

She glanced back at him. Gabriel was sitting on the ground, head on knees. All around was rubble, destroyed ground; there wasn't a trace of the world she had once known, the house she had once lived in. And Noah was gone, forever.

"You're such an idiot," she replied, her voice soft. "Had you _forgotten_ that our blood heals? We still might have saved him, if you hadn't gone and blown everything up."

"Like you cared about Noah." His voice was muffled- was he crying? She didn't care if he was. "The only thing about him that ever interested you was what his ability would end up being."

"I never wanted him, you _knew_ that. But it's always about what you want, isn't it?" Claire stopped, tried to get herself under control. She had to get Peter back to the base before he regained consciousness, before he could try to escape. She wasn't about to let the whole event be worthless.

"You know what the worst part is?"

Gabriel sounded bitter, now; she might have pushed him too far. Still, she personally wasn't afraid of his abilities. He couldn't harm her. Of course, the rest of the world? He _could _do some damage to that, and then others would certainly hold her responsible. She remained silent as she walked over to where Peter's body lay, half-covered with wreckage.

"I always knew he would die before me." He laughed, and it was a harsh, bitter sound. "Unless, of course, he inherited your power; and I wouldn't have wished that on him, even if it would have saved him now. But I figured I had _time_. And now… I don't."

"You brought it on yourself," she growled, dragging Peter out of the rubble. She wanted to get out of Costa Verde, get back to the Company, deal with Peter, and leave the entire mess behind. She didn't want to listen to Gabriel wax poetic on philosophy again; it had been depressing enough the first time.

"To think I'm immortal," he whispered, staring out into the distance, "and all I can think about is how much I'd like to die."


	3. Partner

_Takes place between "One of Us, One of Them" and "Angels and Monsters"_

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* * *

_

A partner; a person who shared or associated with another in some action or endeavor. He knew the meaning of the word, but it didn't make the concept any less foreign to him.

He was a loner, he'd always been a loner. His personality, circumstances- hell, even his previous occupation, everything had taught him to rely only on himself. He forged his own path in life, never mind the social implications. If a person could be useful, he let them demonstrate their use, but never depended, never required. Of course, Noah Bennet could be _very_ useful.

Sylar knew him from the past, and knew that he was a dreadful person to have as an enemy. The question now was whether he could be trusted, if he could be a partner to him, as Angela Petrelli (like _hell_ was he going to call her 'mother', when there was nothing to gain from it) had so glibly put it. Bennet was ruthless, judgmental, and- touchy. Touchy about his family. About Claire. That was good. It meant he was still human, redeemable, capable of change. Like himself, for that matter, like- Gabriel.

Damn. Petrelli was getting to him with her talk about being misguided. He hadn't thought of himself as purely human in ages.

It was amusing, it was fun to watch Bennet attempt to patronize him, to watch as he tried to prove how he was the big, bad agent, the best of them all. He could treat it like a game, and still change Bennet's perception of him, make the possibility of a partner more realistic. He could help, in this game. He could be a hero.

But reality had a way of crashing back down on him, forcing him back into the role of the hunter, the villain. In real life, he couldn't pretend to be a good guy. He could only hurt, and kill, and submit to the hunger that took over his mind and drove away whatever humanity he had gathered in the scraps of his current existence.

Maybe he _was_ a monster, he reflected after the fact, staring at the dull red under his nails that he had tried to wash away. He certainly wasn't a hero, wasn't an angel of any sort. But maybe… maybe there were worse monsters to be.

He was trying, at least. That was worth something, in the long-term scheme of things, as he attempted to revise his view on life, to find if there could be such a thing as good. In the beginning, he had been able to choose which powers to take, who deserved to live and who needed to- die. If he could just get that back, get that ability to control himself, that would be enough.

This Canfield, for example. Bennet told him the details in a clipped voice, obviously still unhappy with the need to bring him along. The power to create literal black holes- that could do more than kill, that could destroy the entire world if used improperly. Himself included. And he had a strong sense of self-preservation.

Still, he had heard past the facts of the report, made his own conjectures. Canfield had killed once, and out of an involuntary reaction. There were no facts to point to him being a killer; he was only dangerous. He decided ahead of time that he would be fair to this man, as an experiment; he would put him back where he could cause no harm, and do no damage to him in the process. He could almost laugh when Bennet told him to stay put by the door, to let him handle taking Canfield down, and to only intervene in the case of an emergency. He wasn't going to take Canfield's power, in any case.

All of his good intentions went flying off to pave the road to hell when he saw Claire.

Maybe he had enjoyed playing the hero, before, maybe he had secretly laughed when others grew sullen at being saved by him, the villain, the killer- but there was none of that, now. There was only the fact that there was a _murderer_ holding Claire hostage, and if the situation remained in its current state for more than five seconds he would be _extremely pissed-off_.

(A small, sarcastic part of his brain noted that Canfield was much less of a murderer than himself or Bennet, and that the cheerleader would, on normal occasions, hardly be endangered by close proximity to any killer. The rest of his mind told the small part to shut up.)

For once, he felt like he could actually trust Bennet- he wasn't going to do anything that might put his daughter in danger. They both had the same goal, at that moment, they were in sync. Almost like partners. Of course, that was when all hell decided to break loose, in the form of a black hole in the center of the room. Somewhere in the world, he knew, a physicist was shuddering over the impossibility of the situation.

At first, there was only the idea of survival- grab onto something sturdy, drop all other priorities. Then, he could watch the vortex, his mind able to quickly analyze, to determine what needed to be done. Bennet seemed fine, but Claire was far too close. He simply needed to calculate the best angle, apply the slightest telekinetic nudge to himself, and- let go.

The force swept him around violently, and the world around him was a meaningless blur, but he knew he was moving in an arc; he managed to grab the metal siding before being swept closer in. On the other side of the room, Claire was losing her grip. There was no time to think; he pushed off, and was swept in another arc, slammed into the siding on the other side. He grabbed her hand before she could disappear.

_Damnit._ He still didn't have complete control over that newer power, from Bailey. He had to watch helplessly as the most recent events Claire had been through flashed before his eyes, and he didn't want to see this, didn't want to see himself as the monster she thought of him as. Guilt was something he couldn't deal with just then.

The vortex seeped away. He held onto her arm for a second too long as he got his balance back, and she jerked it away. It didn't take visions of the past for him to see that she was furious, and it didn't take long to realize that any partnership which might have been possible before was gone.

It was strange. He had done what was needed in the past, and he'd been fine, he'd been satisfied with the picture of a villain he painted in others' minds. But now, when he tried to fix things, to change? That picture had been painted too harshly. It didn't matter what he said; they would only hear what they expected.

The trip to the park was made in complete silence. He had been dismissed to the back seat- some kind of partner he was being treated as. Claire was sulking or thinking or throwing mental daggers at him in the front. Bennet, on the other hand- Bennet was plotting something. He just couldn't tell what.

He was told to wait by the car, _again_, and had to wonder why Bennet even bothered with bringing him along.

Except- except that Bennet had cornered the man, but wasn't acting. And Claire was upset. He briefly contemplated using his enhanced hearing to find out what was going on, but decided that that would be too much like cheating. It would be much more fun to puzzle out what this little soap-opera was centered around through vision alone.

It had the typical elements; the damsel-in-distress was in distress, the enraged father figure was asking for the impossible, the family friend was torn between options. A deal with the devil was being made, to wipe out a greater evil. Then, as Canfield turned to look in his direction, horrified of something, he realized who the 'greater evil' was, in Bennet's mind.

This was ridiculous. He started to walk up to them, intent on calling Bennet out- and Canfield warped himself away. Bennet did his best to look angry, but he wasn't buying it. Not this time.

The soap opera continued in the car ride back, with the tension between father and daughter growing- and, with the focus off of himself, he found it highly amusing. He even took the liberty of throwing in a narrative monologue near the end. Bennet would probably give him hell for it on the rest of the ride back, but it was worth it- especially since it seemed to have set Claire further apart from her father, an action he heartily approved of.

He had never had a partner in the past; he didn't think it likely he could ever grow to have one now.


	4. Memories

_Takes place somewhere in the middle of Season 3_

* * *

Angela Petrelli was too smart for her own good.

He should've thought twice when she decided to 'feed' him, should've asked himself why she would encourage him like that, but _no_, he'd just given into his cravings and taken the power. Stupid, stupid, _stupid_. She had even told him what the power was- the ability to see any object's past. He had thought that that would be useful, at the time, and had looked no further. _Stupid_.

He brushed a hand across the wall in irritation, and was rewarded with a brief glimpse of a previous occupant banging his hands on the same wall, screaming in fury. He glanced over, and smiled grimly at the dents he now noticed. Yes, it could be useful- incredibly useful. But more useful for her than for him.

He hadn't even realized what it would mean, when he found out that he could extend the ability so that it would apply to humans as well. He had been thrilled, in fact, that he could figure out a person's entire history just by shaking their hand or clapping them on the shoulder. True, it did mean that he would be unconscious of his actions for a least five or ten seconds, if he wanted to get the full history- but he was a good actor. He was confident that he could play around it, and gain plenty of useful information in the process.

But when he'd gone for Murphy's ability? He'd been in his best state of mind, focused, pumped with the adrenaline of the hunt. And he'd been excited by the prospect of sound manipulation, as it could go partway in making up for the loss of Candice's ability (which he was still sore about, thank you kindly).

But the moment he touched the man, to determine how the ability worked, the memories started to assault him. Jesse Murphy had not lived a happy life, had not been a good man- he had killed for personal gain, and had killed often. But he had his moments of redemption, and there were a few, far-off memories of his younger sister, a little girl who had looked up to her big brother.

He forced himself to go through with it, anyway; as far as he was concerned, Murphy deserved to die. But he had to live with this man's life, now, and his enhanced memory (which he was starting to regret) wouldn't let him let go of even one of the events. He had to recognize, now, that every killing would be connected to a lifetime, to guilt. He hated guilt. It made him feel… weak.

Angela Petrelli had tricked him well, had found a way to make sure he'd have to think before killing. In a way, it was redundant; he had rarely killed without a purpose before, and had always preferred to go after the unworthy. But he didn't like having guilt forced onto him.

If he was going to 'go good', he wanted it to be by choice, not by his mother's plans.


	5. Just the Way You Are

_Takes place during "Dying of the Light"_

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* * *

_

She would classify this day as bloody annoying.

First, there had been Hiro, that Asian dweeb who she had _thought_ was a pushover but who had actually turned out to be positively _out-of-his-mind_. Daphne didn't have what one would call strong morals, and she was all for bending the laws, but she drew the line at sticking swords into people. _Honestly_.

Then, she had been well scolded by Linderman (and he knew how to give a scolding), not to mention threatened and mocked. Worse, he had snuck up on her; she positively _hated_ it when people did that, since _she_ was supposed to do the sneaking. She didn't care if he had some weird power that made him not-really-there or whatever it was. She knew she should still be faster.

And just before, there had been that cop, who had seemed like a decent guy until he had turned majorly stalker-y on her. Married in the future? They named their kid after her grandmother? She had heard better pickup lines from the criminals she worked with, for Pete's sake. At least the turtle was kind of cute.

Now, Daphne leaned against the outside wall of the airport and attempted to clear her mind. She was flipping through the files as she fought down impatience- anything to keep from thinking about how much she wanted to go back to her apartment and give up on all of Pinehearst. Maybe, once she was done with the 'recruiting', the company would let her go back to theft. That'd make her life a heck of a lot easier, and then she could stop worrying about all the awful people she had met lately.

Tired of contemplation, she flipped back to the front of the files. The first two were located at Primatech, at the holding facility they had there. Both were classified as hardened murderers, ruthless people who would assuredly agree to work for Pinehearst, assuming they got them out of jail. She was to give them the facts, and get them out quickly. It seemed simple enough.

As she moved to put the files back in her bag, a thin sheet of paper fell out of the first file. She picked it up; the words were handwritten, spindly and crawling.

_Be careful with this one. He's extremely dangerous, and psychologically damaged. Make it very clear that we're willing to accept him, no matter what. His ability is of supreme importance to us._

The note was unsigned. That was different; she'd gotten history files before, and more than a few psychological profiles, but never a note like that. Frowning, she slipped it back into the file it'd fallen out of, and glanced at the person's name. Gabriel Gray, alias Sylar.

She could have sworn she'd heard of him before.

It took no time at all to reach Level 5, snatch a key and head to the cells; Primatech had awful security, by her standards, at least. The floor was mostly empty, devoid of its previous occupants; only two cells near the middle held prisoners now. She could tell at a glance that the fire-guy would come with her with no hesitation. She zipped into Sylar's cell instead; he jumped up and backed away too quickly, like he'd heard her coming.

She tried the no-questions method first, hoping to drag him along before the agents could catch up to her. No luck. He seriously was psychologically disturbed, if he wanted to _stay_ in the prison. Then, she tried to play off his doubt, to be the tough girl who knew what she was doing.

As he telekinetically slammed her back against the door, a sarcastic thought flitted through her mind; careful might have been the best option after all.

Briefly, she could relate to what he was doing. He was playing the hero. She had tried to do that too, when she'd first discovered her ability; but she had found out right away that there was no real difference between good and evil. People like Hiro Nakamura made that far too clear.

Desperate, she tried to reason. She was on his side, she just wanted to help. People were trying to change him, and he didn't want that.

That touched a nerve, and she couldn't breathe for a second as the invisible force slammed against her throat. Panic was setting in as each second ticked by, and it was time to play the big cards. Pinehearst knew something about him; they wanted him just the way he was. She even threw in what hopefully looked like a reassuring smile.

There it was- the doubt. The pressure let up for a second or two, and that was all she needed. She ducked out of his hold and ran up to put a card in his hand; there was no way she was sticking around any longer. The note had said he was dangerous, and the note had been absolutely right.

As she snatched Flint and dragged him behind her, she considered the fact that Sylar could possibly be one of her coworkers in the future. For the fourth time that day, she decided that her job was immensely sucky.

Too bad she couldn't get out of it.


	6. Passive

_By the way, guys, thanks for the reviews! I really appreciate them. :) And also, I'm re-watching the first season, so hopefully some early-Sylar oneshots will pop up soon!_

_Takes place between "Dying of the Light" and "Eris Quad Sum"_

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* * *

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"I'm the most special," Peter growled- then everything went black.

When had he become so… passive?

Somewhere, deep in his subconscious, he knew that he didn't need to stay in this state. He was more than able to break out of it. There was no physical impediment, merely a psychological one. He understood this, as he understood everything; so why wasn't he snapping back to life?

There were things that needed to be done. Peter was going to get himself hurt. His… mother, she was in trouble, and he needed to help her. And somewhere out there, there was a job for him to do, villains he needed to bring in.

Villains. He had been one of them, once. What had happened to him? Why was it that now, as he lay inert with vague thoughts swirling through his head, he could only think about helping others? He had wanted that, before, to be the good guy, but he wasn't sure that he liked it, now that the change in his personality seemed to actually be taking place.

Such odd thoughts he was having, too. Reflections on reflections. He had been more aggressive, before, and had acted on impulse. Where had that gotten him? This new state of mind, contemplative, hesitant, could it possibly be better?

Brief flashes of memories, snatches of speech, floated around his mind as he tried to focus. The most recent memories dominated the scene, and he recalled his brother's parting words. Had Peter thought he'd touched a nerve? He could almost laugh; Peter didn't understand what it meant to be special, not truly. The words meant nothing, coming from him.

But in the past, he would've killed his own brother for saying such a thing. Back in those days, he had been touchy, and sensitive even to such immaterial things as names. Strange, strange.

He didn't want to wake up, that was the problem. He didn't want to face a world where his family was more convoluted and dysfunctional than any soap opera's and ninety-nine percent of the people who knew him hated his guts. Normally, when faced with such a world, he'd make a prompt decision to tell them all to go to hell, then find his own path. He couldn't, now. His mother actually cared about him, and… he couldn't let that go.

Was he acting weak, scared? Perhaps. It was a pity; those were qualities he despised. Nevertheless, he wouldn't wake up. Not until he had to.


	7. Angel

_First, sorry that I haven't updated in so long- life's been hectic. The next few weeks won't be any better, so don't expect many more updates anytime soon._

_Second, it seems like the Elle/Sylar shippers had it right all along. This one's for them._

_Takes place during "Villains"._

* * *

Gabriel Gray didn't acknowledge the existence of luck, or destiny, or any of the gimmicks that people would attempt to sell on street corners. He didn't need to believe in anything, because facts presented themselves so clearly to him; they always had. There were no coincidences when you could see the chains of cause and effect building themselves even before an event took place.

Chandra Suresh, he wasn't a coincidence. It was bound to happen, _someone_ had to come along eventually and help him see how different he ultimately was. The only uncertain factor was time. And Brian Davis was most certainly not a coincidence. He himself had made sure of that, and the sequence of events which had led to the man's death would have happened somewhere, sometime, no matter which path led him there.

Gabriel Gray held hardly any religious beliefs; that was good, because his current path of action would probably send him straight to hell, if he believed in it. As he fingered the gnarled cords of the rope, he decided that he didn't want to believe in an eternal afterlife. Life was enough like hell for him at the moment.

He would miss the sense of power, of being in control, but it wasn't worth it, it wasn't worth becoming a monster. He had _killed_. Could he live day-to-day, pretending to be normal, pretending he didn't have a man's blood on his hands? Certainly not. He could see the crossroads he had come upon, and it split clearly enough, with casualties on both paths. The only question now was whether it would be one death, or many.

Gabriel Gray never bothered to feel regret. The past was immutable, so what was the point in worrying over deeds that had already been done? He would do what was needed, and as to the future- well, he wouldn't need to worry about that. He shoved the chair into place and stepped up, looking over the shop one last time, and wondered briefly what his mother would say. No regret- but he would miss her.

When he took action, it was final, decided, and nothing could change his mind. So how could a mere piece of rope, an inanimate object, decide that he was someone worth saving? And how could a girl show up at precisely the right moment, the kind of girl who he usually daydreamed over without ever daring to speak to? And how could events fall out into a pattern he couldn't recognize, and how could he dare to have _hope_, after all he'd done, how could he dare to take a chance on a better future when this girl, Elle, she said her name was Elle, when she knew nothing about him and the horrible things he might end up doing, how could she make the decisions, and especially how could it seem as though she honestly understood what it was like to have made the most terrifying mistake of them all?

Gabriel Gray did not believe in love at first sight. But perhaps, tonight, Gabriel Gray would believe in guardian angels.


	8. Monster

_Oh wow, it's been a while since I updated. But with last night's episode... I couldn't resist._

_Takes place during "Dual"._

* * *

Slowly but surely, he was gaining complete control over himself again.

It had been hard, at first, to keep himself from killing every person he met, as a way to funnel his fury. He had gone so long without blood on his hands, and it felt so _good_ to have all that understanding, to know exactly what made a person tick. After E- after that woman with the lightning power who he was not going to think about, not right now, he had found himself dedicated solely to one purpose. There were no heroes, no villains. There was no right or wrong. There were only lies and the truth- and he was getting pretty damn sick of lies.

Landers and the other petty employees, they meant nothing. He even enjoyed the carnage. But he had to work to hold himself back from killing the man in the elevator- and that was new for him. Never before his whimsical good-guy days had he tried to keep from killing someone, not without a specific purpose. It was a new step for him.

And what was _very_ interesting was that he felt more and more clear-headed with every person he killed. Arthur Petrelli- not Father, that man had never been a father, not even to his biological sons. The guards at Primatech. The yelling guy, the man with the metal arm, the disgustingly perverted puppet-man. Everything was so obvious, now that there was no right or wrong, and he was starting to wonder how that family of Petrellis had ever managed to fool him in the first place.

His view on life was black and white, before he had been captured, with him on one side and the world on the other. Then everything had exploded into color, to the point where he was blinded and unsure of where he belonged- but now, he was seeing others in shades of gray. He had the 'good guys' to thank for it, so wouldn't it be interesting to open their eyes, as well? And, of course, it was _ever_ so much fun to watch them scuttle around like so many little spiders, doing their best to sting the giant before he could step on them.

Meredith Gordon. He had nothing personal against her, but he didn't like her attitude, and he didn't approve of mothers who deserted their children. And she could be a useful tool.

Angela Petrelli. He was going to get answers out of that woman, and then he was going to watch her die. She had seen him at his weakest, fooled him. That simply couldn't be allowed.

Noah Bennet. Did he even need to list the many grievances he had against the man? He would kill him, someday- but he would wait until he had shown everyone who knew the man how evil he truly was. Especially Claire.

Claire… Claire was still fascinating. Claire was still changing. Claire was not reacting exactly as he had expected her to, though she still went running straight back to her father, bless her misguided little soul. And Claire was the most fun to toy with, because where the others remained obstinately sure that they were right and mostly ignored him, she reacted, she believed every word he said. Why wouldn't she? He only told the truth.

He rather liked to think that he was solely responsible for changing her from the girl who ran away to the cold-headed young woman she had become, a person who was able to glare him down fearlessly while he held her up against the wall, but he couldn't take all the credit.

He wasn't the only monster, after all.


	9. Rebel

_Based off of an incredibly unlikely idea a friend came up with during the last episode._

_Also, I might do a oneshot based on Luke at some point in time, since I'm so goshdarned excited that Sylar is getting an (apprentice) associate? This is assuming I actually have free time again._

_Takes place after "Trust and Blood"._

* * *

_IT'S TIME. G.E. PARKING LOT. 20:30. --REBEL_

Claire sat in the front seat of her car, rubbing the edge of her phone over and over again. She had turned off the engine a few minutes previously, figuring that nothing was going to distract her from her present situation and that the frigid air of the outside world might as well serve to sharpen her senses. She could never be too careful, these days.

A simple trip to the grocery store. Innocent enough, so her mother wouldn't suspect anything. If things didn't turn out as planned, she would be able to turn back to home, and spend more time browsing on Craigslist for a job and pretending to look at college brochures.

A dark car turned into the lot and rolled into a space near hers, far to the back and left where no one else wanted to park. She spared it a glance, then looked away- no real rebel would come in such a mundane thing as a car, she was sure.

If everything went as planned, then maybe, _maybe_, she'd be able to help again. Rebel hadn't told her much, but something about the words he said made her feel like she could trust him. He would figure out a way to help her fight, but away from her family, so they wouldn't get hurt. He'd help her be a hero again.

Someone tapped lightly on the side of her window, and she whirled around quickly in her seat, her hand flying to rest on the taser she had borrowed from her dad's office. A moment later, she relaxed, and scowled. The boy standing outside had to be her age or younger, and looked far too bored to be able to cause any damage. She wouldn't have been surprised if he had known her once, back when she still bothered with going to school.

She rolled down the window a crack, and peered at him over the edge. "What do you want?"

"You're here to see, uh, Rebel?" His voice had a sort of anxious-to-please quality to it that made her dislike him on the spot. There was no way that _he_ was the person who had been sending the messages- but maybe he knew who had?

"Yeah." Claire opened the door and slid out, glaring at the boy until he backed up a few steps. She flipped her hair behind her shoulders and nudged the door shut. "Want to tell me where he is?"

"Over here, cheerleader."

She knew that voice- she would always know that voice, until the day she died, which, if she was going to look at this logically, was never. She scrambled to pull out her taser, ignoring the fact that it wouldn't do her any good in this situation, and put her back up against her car. She could feel herself shaking, and tried to calm her nerves, but had she ever escaped from Sylar unscathed?

"I should have known it would be you, playing games," she hissed, glaring towards the dark figure leaning against his own car, a few spots away. It totally wasn't odd that she almost felt triumphant at the fact that she had _known_ he was still alive, when no one else had listened to her. "Didn't I kill you already?"

"I don't die so easily, Claire," he replied, a feral grin slowly creeping across his face. "_You_ ought to know that, if no one else does."

Someone coughed nervously, and she spared a glance for the boy who had lured her out of her car in the first place. Did he even know what he was getting into? Probably Sylar had tricked him or blackmailed him or something- she wouldn't put it past him. "Alright, Sylar, who are you trying to hurt this time?"

"Hurt? Oh, I'm not hurting anyone." He paused, reflected for a moment. "Well. Perhaps the 'bad guys'."

"You think this is _funny_?"

"I think I'm getting tired of the government poaching on my territory." He stood up straight and walked towards her casually, ignoring how she was pointing her weapon at him threateningly. Why wasn't he trying to telekineticly freeze her or something? "I think that my goals might mirror those of a few would-be heroes in this case, and that the government is rather too large for one man to take down alone."

"You want help?" She grinned back maliciously, every nerve on edge. "And you're honestly looking to recruit me? Go to hell, Sylar."

The boy shifted uneasily and started to speak, but Sylar waved a hand at him and he automatically fell silent. "You'll help," he said calmly, staring her down.

"No."

"You want revenge, of course, and who better to work through to get that revenge?"

She looked away; he really was disconcerting when he stared at a person like that. "I- I don't need revenge. I just want everyone to be safe."

He sighed. "You're lying. Don't glare, I can tell. And, more importantly, you know very well that doing anything would be better than sitting at home, wasting your time wondering which of your friends got killed today."

She balled up her free hand into a fist. Damn it, why did Sylar always have to tell the truth?

"This is a one time offer, Claire." He was still watching her, completely serious, and since when had Sylar been so composed? "And, think about it- if I'm going to be corrupting the young heroes of the day, as I'm sure you're suspecting me of doing, wouldn't you prefer to be there to help them escape when they came to their senses?"

"I thought you couldn't read minds," Claire growled, fingering the trigger of the taser half-heartedly.

"I can't." He smiled. "But I can sure as hell understand yours."


	10. Nuisance

_Shortest time between updates everrrrrr. Also, I've gone back through all the older entries and fixed up a few formatting and grammar issues, since they were bothering me. But nothing plot-wise changed._

_Takes place during "Building 26"._

* * *

The kid was annoying.

He wasn't annoying like El- like the lightning girl had been annoying, with mannerisms or petty complaints. Nor was he annoying like Peter Petrelli could be annoying, with constant good-guy bluster and an inability to see past the obvious. No, this teenager had his own particular fashion of getting on Sylar's nerves- the way he refused to take anything seriously, even when he knew better. The way he apparently knew _exactly_ which buttons to push.

For example- the lying. He wanted to hate the kid for lying, just as he hated everyone else in the world, but couldn't quite bring himself to despise him completely. The kid had an imagination, at least- he could credit him with that. If tales were going to be told, Sylar would prefer for them to be creative ones.

Also, the kid seemed to have no sense of self-preservation _at all_. He could kill him- and he would, if the kid sung along with the car's radio in his horribly off-pitch voice again- and yet the kid didn't care. He had even mentioned the fact that Sylar was a serial killer (which he wasn't- in principle, anyway) in an almost cheerful manner, which certainly no sane person would do.

The kid was a nuisance. He talked too much. He always wanted to drive faster. He _sucked_ at browsing for stations on the radio, though his taste in music was decent. He quoted far too many old movies. He seemed oblivious to the cardinal rule that one did not insult diners, or the waiters at them, until one had left the premises. His handwriting, though wonderful to behold when it was used to convey information that Sylar desperately needed, was just the brand of chicken-scratch that he despised the most.

Also, the kid was not very good at making fast and sneaky exits.

Also, the kid was very inconveniently not immune to bullets.

Also, Sylar was not used to looking after someone other than himself.

And that was stupid, because he didn't care about the kid. He didn't care if the boy got killed, really. He only cared about himself. And now that he had the information, the kid didn't matter at all.

… but it would be slightly unfair to let the kid get shot when he himself could take the bullets without getting killed. Even if the kid _was _a pretty bad actor, the agents were apparently just oblivious enough to fall for it. And Sylar was pretty sure that guilt, an annoying side effect that had tagged along with the late arrival of his conscience a few months ago, might start nagging at him later if he didn't pay the kid back for saving his life.

He even had a logical reason- he didn't want to let the group that was trying to take him down get any kind of victory, and by taking action, he could secure valuable information. Certainly that logical reason was why he got a vindictive kind of pleasure out of taking down the agents.

Anyway, it was a little bit relaxing to have someone to talk to who wasn't trying to kill him. Someone who his father had known.

And despite all of his annoying traits, Luke was a pretty good listener.


	11. Captured

_Takes place sometime after Building 26._

* * *

There was only one thought in his mind when he first came back to his senses- _captured_.

Him, Sylar, the undefeatable, uncatchable- he had been trapped like a rat in a cage. That was _not _supposed to happen, wasn't on his list of things to do for the day. Ha ha, a joke. Unfortunately, he only made jokes when secretly nervous. Bad sign. Very bad.

Focus. He needed to focus, figure out how to get out of this situation. How had he gotten into it to begin with? A new weapon? Something had changed, he knew. The government agents couldn't possibly have taken him down otherwise. But that could wait for later- first, he had to escape. Someone had made a mistake in letting him regain consciousness, and he was planning on leaving a battlefield of destruction and death behind him as a gift to them.

Something was keeping his hands fastened to the back of the chair he was tied to, something metallic. Idiots- such simple restraints couldn't possibly keep him trapped. Eyes still closed, he envisioned the area around his hands, and gave that slight mental nudge that he always associated with telekinesis.

Nothing.

No time to wonder, experiment. He tried again, _slashing_ at the material in his mind- but nothing at all was happening. Frustrated, he decided to try a different route, and curled his hands around the material, attempting to access its memories, to find out what it was made of, how it had been created.

_Nothing_.

Biting back a curse, he opened his eyes and found himself face-to-face with a short bald man, grim-looking and dressed all in back. Quickly, before the man could do anything, Sylar opened his mouth to try Murphy's sonic scream trick and knock him back- but all that came out was a dusty-sounding croak.

"You're probably dehydrated," the man said. "Tough luck."

Sylar narrowed his eyes.

"I was right, Senator," the man said, keeping his eyes on Sylar, but also speaking more loudly. "He's awake."

"I was afraid of that." A new figure walked into his line of vision, and he forgot himself enough to jerk against the bonds holding him without even trying to do anything with his powers- he knew _that_ figure. "Hello, Sylar. I don't think we ever got a chance to talk about what you did to my daughter."

Daughter. It took a moment for him to remember that Petrelli was Claire's father, as it was hard to believe that the cheerleader was actually related to someone so… shark-like. In any case, he would lower himself to talking to Nathan Petrelli, since it would be a good way to distract himself from the fact that he couldn't seem to access his abilities. Clearing his throat (it _was_ rather dry), he rasped out, "what, saved her life?"

"Try 'cut open her head'," Nathan growled, glaring down at him.

"We don't have time for personal issues," the bald man said, still watching Sylar. "If we're going to test it on him, we'd better do it now."

"Test what?" He relaxed back into his chair, convinced that he could keep the two talking for long enough to figure out a way to escape. Clearly, they were underestimating him.

Nathan reached over to the medical tray that was placed on a table nearby, picking up a syringe full of clear liquid. When he looked back at Sylar, his face was unreadable. "The cure."

At first, he didn't realize what that was supposed to mean.

Then, when Nathan approached him with the needle, it snapped into place.

"_NO!,_" he yelled, trying anything- telekinesis, electricity, sound manipulation, even those abilities like melting and shattering that he hadn't tried to access in ages. But nothing was happening. Something was holding him back. The Haitian? Or some kind of force field, some new technology that could suppress powers?

It wouldn't matter in a moment or so. Any second now, they'd all be gone for good.

He started thrashing in his bonds while yelling garbled sentences that he couldn't even understand, trying to loosen something, knock the chair over, _anything_ but be 'cured'. The bald man was now trying to restrain him, while Petrelli stepped back, looking perturbed.

"I thought you pumped him full of sedatives," the senator snapped, eyes flickering back and forth nervously.

"We did," the bald man grunted, "and twice the usual dosage, too."

"Well, shit." Nathan's eyes continued to flicker, and then he gave a hesitant nod. "We'll have to risk it, then."

And Sylar couldn't do anything to stop it, couldn't do more than watch in a strange combination of fury and petrifaction as Petrelli lunged in, needle aimed towards his shoulder, and there was a brilliant flash of light-

-

"-ou okay? Hey, s-stop screaming like that, it's really freaking me out. Sylar?"

Sylar sat up abruptly, gasping in air. The brilliant light was coming from a bedside lamp that had had its lampshade knocked off. The voice was Luke's, and was coming from the boy himself, who was sitting on his own bed on the other side of the nightstand, shivering in his sweatpants and t-shirt. He could remember every single fact he had learned from the government-issue laptop the previous night quite precisely, and if he tuned his ears in to the right frequency, he could hear cockroaches skittering in the walls three motel rooms away. He still had his powers. He wasn't cured.

He sat back against the headboard, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath, trying to compose himself.

"Sorry for waking you up," Luke muttered, looking away, "but, God, you should have seen yourself. I've never heard anyone scream like that. What kind of nightmare were you having?"

Keep breathing. That was all that mattered. He still had his abilities. He was still special.

"Go back to sleep, Luke," he muttered, trying to beat back the images.

"But-"

"Do it!" He opened his eyes to glare at the teenager, then slumped a little and sighed. "And, uh. Stop looking so petrified. I'm not going to kill you in your sleep for this." It was the closest thing to a thank-you that he could even consider giving the kid.

Luke turned off the lamp and crawled back under his covers, leaving Sylar to sit in the dark and think. The information that the laptop from the agents had 'given' him had been infinitely useful, and had even led to him discovering who the main players in this twisted little game were. But he had also been able to deduce where their current path was going to leave them, and it was the worst possible path for him.

He'd have to be vigilant. He absolutely _could not _let anyone take his powers away. They were more important than anything else- more important than who his father was, if he had a family, the truth, even life itself. Life wouldn't be worth living, if he was normal. Not anymore.


	12. Turning Point

_I just realized that I've had anonymous reviews blocked this entire time... whoops. Sorry about that. So, if you've always wanted to leave a review but haven't been able to, now's your chance! :) Also, have I ever mentioned that I do love getting reviews/constructive criticism? I'm always looking to improve, and I like knowing what works for people and what doesn't. So don't be shy, folks!_

_Takes place during the flashback in Exposed._

_

* * *

_

You're six years old, and the most important thing in the world is that in precisely four hours and seventeen minutes, the next episode of _Galactica 1980_ will be airing.

Battlestar Galactica is the coolest show you've ever seen, with maybe the exception of the Twilight Zone. It's better than that toddler stuff like Sesame Street that your mother still makes you watch sometimes, when your father is out and you can watch the TV at all. Right now, you're plotting a way to get them both away for an hour or two, so you can have the television to yourself. You're pretty sure you can manage it. You're good at explaining things the way grown-ups what to hear them said.

Your Father (he gets capital letters 'cause he's extremely important) leaves you in the corner booth so he can go and talk about Serious Business with Uncle Martin. You want to ask him why Mommy is still out in the car, but he has his Don't Interrupt Me face on, so you don't. Besides, you can use this as an opportunity to play Speed Racer with your toy car.

There's something ticking in the back of your mind to the tune of why would your father be doing such weird things, and how come Mommy has been acting so nervous lately, and little events are fitting together to form conclusions that you don't want to reach. Your mind does this, sometimes, when you aren't paying attention to anything in particular. You never tell anyone, though. It's your own little secret.

Speed Racer's car has just fallen into the Pit of Doom, but you're thinking you can figure out how to get it back when your father comes back and tugs you away. And then he's talking about things that you don't understand with these adults that you barely know, and you have a bad, bad feeling about this entire situation.

Your Father is leaving. The other adults are smiling at you and grasping your hand in an almost guilty way. This situation, in short, is Very Bad. And that's when you realize that there's only one option left for you- you have to get back to your parents. They always know what to do, and they always have solutions for when things go wrong.

So you run back outside, and it's Not Right that they're in the car and about to leave you, and sure your father has pulled stunts like this before but he never means it, Mommy always says. It'll all be okay once you get back in the car- except you're pretty sure they're not playing make believe when your mother falls out, and you're pretty sure that nothing will ever be okay again.

"Mommy," you whisper, waiting for her to look at you and shine up with that special smile she reserves for you. She isn't moving. "_Mommy!"_

"Gabriel?" Someone's come out of the diner, her heels tapping briskly against the concrete, but you can't look away from that liquid color that Does Not Look like the blood you've seen on TV shows. "Honey, you need to come back in, we can explain—"

The tattoo of her heels stops, and you look up to see her standing over you, her mouth open.

"Oh. Oh, f-" Aunt Virginia glances down at you, and then grabs your shoulders and turns you away, marching you back into the diner. "Come on, Gabey, you just need to come in for a moment. Your m-mother will wake up in a sec, okay? Let's just go and get Martin. Come on." She's gripping your shoulders too tightly, and you stumble as she walks you back too fast.

You're six years old, and the most important thing in the world is that Mommy is dead- she's not just sleeping, you won't believe any of that _crap_, that bright red is all over the place- your mother is dead, and everything you ever knew is gone.

That's when you decide that you can't depend on anyone but yourself. Not even your parents. Not even the characters in TV shows and comic books that you've come to admire so much. You have to grow up to be strong, so that no one can ever hurt you. You can't _need_ anyone, not ever again.

It's harder to keep doing that than you'd think.


	13. Centennial: Part One

_I dunno... this is just an idea that's been floating about in my head for quite awhile. Instead of a oneshot, this will kind of be a two-to-threeshot. But mixed up with other stuff, because I can._

_Also, it's much more Sylaire-shippy than most of the other parts have been. And slightly more Claire-centered._

_Takes place waaaaay far ahead in the future._

* * *

It's December 31st, 2099, and Claire Bennet is ordering another beer.

The bartender gives her a funny look, and she can't blame him- she's been through three already. By now, most girls of her stature would have been swooning and giggling and would need to be sent home with a designated driver. Of course, Claire is nothing like most girls.

She takes a sip from the glass, reveling in the strength of the taste. Flavor doesn't matter. All she really wants is something to take her mind off of the fact that it's New Years Eve- _again_- and she doesn't have anyone to celebrate it with. Which is silly, since she's grown used to being alone. Really. Something as stupid as a holiday shouldn't matter in the least.

It's just… she remembers 1999, flickeringly, just barely. She can remember sitting with her family around the television set, counting down the seconds 'til midnight. She can remember her brother being completely convinced that everything was going to crash, or the world would end, or something, and her dad laughing it off. She can remember everything being simple. Happy.

There's a slight buzz in the background that's associated with someone walking through the metal detector, and the bartender looks up to ask what the new guy would like to drink.

"What she's having," he replies, and Claire stiffens at the dark tone of his voice. Well. Maybe she can't quite say that she's always _alone_.

"Sylar," she murmurs coolly as he slides onto the stool next to her. He looks the same as always, though he now has his hair spiked up in the front.

"Cheerleader," he rejoins, almost cheerfully. "You've dyed your hair again, I see. Back to blonde."

"It's been blonde for nine years," she replies drily, tapping the outside of her glass.

"Ah." He rests his elbows on the counter, watching the bartender. "That's right- I haven't seen you since '87, I think?"

"Mmm. At the omni-linguist's apartment." She's surprised that she can still remember the occasion. "I was trying to get information, and then you waltzed in, ready to steal her power."

He smiles sarcastically. "And you told her to run, and she started cussing us both out in twelve different languages. I think one of them was… bird."

"I threw you out of her window. Third story, right?"

"Fourth, actually." He curls his fingers around his glass a second after the man behind the counter slides it towards him. "You caught me by surprise. I hadn't expected you to take my suggestion and learn some form of karate."

"Tae Kwon Do, technically." She shrugs, struggles to keep from smiling. "Well, it was a good idea, even coming from you."

Sylar runs his pointer finger around the rim of the glass, not drinking, just thinking. He hesitates before speaking again, and when he does, his words are slow and confused, as if he's not sure why he's saying them. "I… I missed your hundredth birthday, didn't I?"

The man sitting at the other end of the bar is staring at them, muttering something about having had one drink too many. Sylar glances back towards him and flicks his fingers, causing the man to suddenly develop an intense headache and realize that he really ought to be heading home. This gives Claire a chance to recover from surprise and collect her thoughts.

"Well, yeah." She looks down, frowning. "Doesn't matter. It wasn't anything special."

The corner of his mouth twitches up at the last word, but then he gives a little shudder and flicks her a glare. "Claire, what have I always said about lying?"

She hunches her shoulders, bites her lower lip. Damn abilities. "Fine. It wasn't anything… good, okay?"

He tilts his head to the side, watching her.

"He died." Her voice is strangled now, a mixture of grief and anger being fought back. "Peter. I- I kept trying to keep him alive, giving him my power whenever he lost it, but then he'd keep taking risks and needing to borrow other powers, and he'd age every time he did. I don't think he ever realized how old he was getting. Not 'til it was too late." She's not sure why she's telling Sylar all of this, except that he's the only other person left from the old days. And, though she'd never let him know, sometimes she kind of wonders what he's doing out there, how he spends his days as the only other immortal in the world.

"Huh." Sylar's still watching her, expressionless. "Well. Petrelli acted stupid, played the hero, and got himself killed. That figures."

"Shut up," she says curtly, grabbing her glass to take another drink.

"Why are you bothering with that right now?" he asks, curious. "I know it doesn't do any good."

She sighs, holding the drink an inch from her lips. "It's the same with you, then? Alcohol doesn't affect you?"

He nods. "Alcohol is usually drained out of the system slowly, causing intoxication in the process; with your ability, any foreign substances are eliminated almost instantly, so you can't feel the effects. It's truly marvelous, the breadths towards which your power can be extended."

Stupid Sylar, always trying to teach her about her own ability. Claire glares at him. "Well then, Mister Serial Killer, why'd you come to a bar in the first place?

He stares at her for a moment or two, and then his face lights up in a smile that actually makes him look human. Claire blinks. "Aha- looks like someone didn't realize that there's an astrological phenomenon scheduled for tonight."

Blink. Blink.

"There's going to be an eclipse, Claire," he says slowly, still smiling.

He's kind of cute when he's smiling like a real person instead of a homicidal maniac. Just her type, too- tall and dark. Then Claire mentally roundhouse kicks herself, trying to put her hormones (which are, unfortunately, perpetually in the aggravated state of a 17-year-old girl's) into order. "But we won't be able to see it," she mutters finally, tearing her eyes away.

"Doesn't matter. It'll still have the same effect." He checks his watch- she glances over, and notices that, though he's got one of those new wireless ones that are really more like mini computers than watches, he's also still wearing his broken analog watch- and nods. "Should be starting in five minutes. I'm planning on spending it like I always do."

"You're going to get drunk?"

"Indeed."

It's a stupid, stupid plan. "Mind if I join you?"

He pauses, and then shrugs. "If you want to, Claire."

And, you know? She actually does.


	14. Centennial: Part Two

"Nah- nah no. Dat's not the best part." He's smiling again, and she's changed her mind, it's not just cute, it's _hot._ Despite the Brooklyn accent (good _Lord_, he might not have a specific home anymore, but he still sounds like a New Yorker deep down). "The killin', you know, exciting at first, but it wears off. Nah. I like the _knowin'._"

Claire has not felt this good in decades. She isn't worrying about anything, she isn't feeling guilty or angry, she's _relaxed._ She's also kind of dizzy. But that's okay. Seriously. "Gabe."

"Sylar," he reminds her.

"Gabriel, then. This- this is a good idea." She nods twice, emphatically, but doesn't nod three times because that makes the spinning in her head worse. Besides, people only nod three times when situations are dire. "We should totally do this again. Yeah."

"Solar eclipses happen, eh, 'bout twice a year," he mutters, squinting at his empty glass as if wondering where his drink went. "It's a fan-_tas_-tic way t'forget. S'my personal holiday."

For some reason, she thinks that's incredibly funny, and she starts giggling uncontrollably. The bartender wanders over, shaking his head. "Good God, you kids have no tolerance level, do you? Best be headin' home before you get in trouble."

Sylar's eyebrows furrow down low over his eyes, and he furtively raises his hand, pointer finger extended, but Claire grabs his hand in hers and hops off of her stool. "That's prob'ly a good idea. Thanks, sir!"

"Don't do anything foolish, now," he calls after them as she drags Sylar out of the building.

"What'd you do that for?" he grumbles as they stumble out into the night air, which is pleasantly cool since they're only in Costa Verde, after all. "I was gonna, oh, I dunno, make'm walk away or somethin'."

"Don't have your powers right now, remember?" She frowns, still walking forward and tugging him behind her. She isn't quite sure where she's going, but she knows she'll figure it out eventually. And besides, she's _badass_. Nothing bad could possibly happen. "How long do eclipses last?"

"He called us kids, too," Sylar mutters, frowning. "We're twice his age, at least. He should respec' his elders, you know?"

"_Gabriel_. Eclipses. How long do they last?"

He looks at her, puzzled. "Eh, it varies," he hedges. "The effects, though, they last an hour or two, maybe."

She thinks (the cool air is calming her down, helping clear her mind a bit). How much time has passed since Sylar suddenly went all stiff and funny-looking and said that 'it was starting'? _At least_ three days. No, wait, that doesn't add up. Thirty minutes, maybe, plus five outside, minus eight from the fact that her cell phone's clock is a bit off, and… "What's thirty-five minus eight? "

He snickers. "Can't even do basic math, 'den? God, I can't believe you're so drunk after one shot. It's pathetic."

She drops his hand and whirls around to glare at him. "Stop being such a jerk, you… _jerk._ Anyway. You're drunk too."

"Am not."

"Are t-" she takes a deep breath, reminds herself to act like a responsible adult instead of a petulant teenager. "Whatever. _I'm_ going home." Oh, right- she's walking in the direction her apartment's in. Funny that it took her so long to figure it out.

"Shit, you actu'ly still live here?" Sylar looks surprised.

"Sometimes." She doesn't want him stalking her… much.

"Neh. Didn't think you did." He shrugs. "I mean, after everyone you knew here dying and all."

"You're a dick, you know that?"

He smiles, and she turns to leave him in disgust, but when she starts walking again, he's right there next to her. "Doesn't make what I said any less true, does it?"

"Why do you care?" she asks, feeling very tired. Her building is only about a block away, but she's tempted to lie down on the sidewalk and take a nap.

"About what?"

"Me." She frowns- it doesn't sound quite right, but she doesn't exactly mind the connotation, either. "Why do you keep tryin' to figure me out? 'Cause I'm still special?"

He actually laughs this time. "Yeah, but not 'de way you mean it. You're an unusual person, Claire. You keep changin' on me." He looks at her, and she can't help looking at him. "I think I like that, from you."

"You don't make much sense," she complains.

"Good," he says, inordinately cheerful.

And suddenly they're standing in front of her building's door. She's tempted to invite him up to her room, like people always do in the movies, but she's not _that_ drunk. This is still Sylar.

Except… he _is_ Sylar. Sylar, who is always there, who doesn't die. Sylar, who always watched out for her in a perverse sort of way. The devil to her angel, people used to say, until she started looking after herself and people stopped calling her an angel.

So, if she wasn't an angel, was he still a devil?

"Your place," he observes. "I guess you want me gone, neh?"

"When did you last kill someone?" she asks.

He backs up a step, staring at her.

"From earlier. You said knowin' was the fun of it, not killing. So, have you been killing?"

He scoffs at first. "'Dat's none of your business." She glares, and he relents. "Well. I mean, I don't keep track, but… I've been trying something different." He glances at her, glances away. "Empathy."

She doesn't understand what he's saying, but she gets the gist of it. "Spit it out, Sylar. Admit it. At the moment, you're not a murderer."

He sighs. "As of the last decade, yeah. I've made, eh, mistakes. But overall, I'm succeedin'."

She doesn't know what to say. She knows that, deep inside, he's still a ruthless, power-thirsty man who will do anything to get the knowledge he craves. She knows that he _will_ kill if it's necessary, and that he's tried to do good before, tried and failed. She knows that he could be lying.

She doesn't know what to say- so she stands on her tiptoes and kisses him instead.

* * *

_So, I have practically no experience with drunk people/being drunk. Sorry if they're unrealistic._


	15. Game

_So, who called Claire not being able to get drunk a week or two ago? And which character proved that hypothesis 100% correct in tonight's episode? AW YEAH._

_Also, not particularly sure what this little oneshot is. It's quite possible that I'll at least partially rewrite it tomorrow, when I've slept. Sounds like a plan._

_Takes place during "Into Asylum"  
_

* * *

Sylar had gotten himself a new toy, and he thought it _ever_ so much fun.

Emile Danko was an open book, despite the man's extensive efforts to cover up any sign of weakness. With his paranoia, refusal to form attachments with others, and utter hatred for different people- he was a dime-a-dozen human, in Sylar's opinion. Yet he was _fun_. Fun to play with, taunt, and lure into destruction. Fun to manipulate and deceive.

Certainly the man was no fool; Sylar knew very well that their 'partnership' would only last as long as Danko thought him safe. Not safe, perhaps, but- disinterested? He was wrong, naturally. Sylar was incredibly interested, invested, in the way the world was currently running. Not that he thought himself in danger; the government had shown themselves to be a bunch of incompetents so far. No, no, this was an _opportunity_, and one he was going to milk for all it was worth.

Still, the man had some original thoughts.

"You do realize- if you go through with this, you'll be the only one left."

Not entirely true. From what he'd read of Suresh's research, powers were not based entirely on family lines, genetics, though they did seem to raise the probability. Even if he killed of all humans who currently had powers- all but one, if he was going to get technical- new ones would still be born. But what would he do then? Travel the world, tracking down babies with powers, and killing them? Unlikely. He wasn't even sure when abilities typically started manifesting.

But that wasn't the point. Could he convince himself that it was alright to kill off all humans with powers? Certainly the ones who didn't use their powers, and certainly the ones who _mis_used them, but could he track them all down, and kill every last person? Did he really want to make himself the last of his generation of superhumans?

_There was no good or evil._ He'd been over that point what felt like a billion times, debated, pondered the question. He met almost no 'heroes' in all of his travels who actually used what they'd been given to the utmost extent. He'd seen people who were weak, people who _deserved_ to die, by his standards. He didn't mind killing them. They were nothing.

But would he be able to tell the difference when (if) he met someone worthwhile? Did he really have a status quo, or had he completely removed himself from the human race? Was he treating this entire situation like a game, had he lost the ability to take life seriously?

Did it even matter?

"Funny how that works," he replied softly. He didn't want to give Danko a solid reply, but truthfully, he couldn't think of one, either. He couldn't quite find answers anymore.


	16. Centennial: Part Three

When he wakes up, it isn't all that unusual that there's the cold barrel of a gun pointed at his head. However, it is quite strange that he can't remember where he is.

He drowsily figures out the probable chains of cause and effect, fitting together the pieces effortlessly. The only time when his memory could possibly not keep track of everything would be when his powers were gone- there must have been some kind of event, an eclipse, probably. He usually does idiotic things in celebration during eclipses. Interestingly, though, the fabric his face is pressed against is one he doesn't recognize, white and plushy. What has he wandered into?

"Awake, are we?"

Oh- wait. He knows that voice. He knows it well, actually. He and that voice have a very long and complicated history.

"Good morning, Claire," he mumbles into the fabric, turning his head a bit so he can look at her. She's glaring down at him in her sweatpants and shirt, hair tied to the side in a ponytail. It's a little weird that he actually likes her better this way then he does when she's all dressed up and flitting about, pretending to be a stone-cold devil woman.

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't kill you right now," she hisses, face bright red.

So it's going to be one of _those _mornings. "Because I can't die. And if you try to kill me, you'll just get blood all over your couch," he drawls, grinning.

Claire considers this for a moment, and he notices something unusual. Her eyes are glazed over, and she isn't really reacting to his words. It doesn't seem like she's so much as listening to him- or, if she is listening, she isn't believing. That's new. That's _quite_ a development.

"Not good enough," she says dully, and he heard the click of the safety being released. It strikes him- just as an unimportant fact- that if anyone knows how to put him out of action for what could effectively be forever, Claire does. She'd done it before, far back in the past, though not quite perfectly enough. But he'd thought she wouldn't do it again.

"Not good enough at all," she repeats, not looking at him. "Look, Sylar, did you honestly think I'd believe you?"

He doesn't like where this conversation is going. "Well, duh, though I'm not sure about what."

"Last night." She still isn't looking at him, damn it. "You said you weren't killing anymore. That's a total lie."

(He _said_ that? If he wasn't careful, people were going to start thinking of him as a softy.)

"So, I want you to think very carefully before you answer my next question, because your life depends on it." She pauses for a moment, and then looks back at him (finally). "Have you gone good?"

There's only one answer he can possibly give. "Yes. Now why-"

And briefly, he heard a loud explosion of noise, very, very close to his head.

But then he hears nothing anymore.

-

_I'm sorry, everyone, but this is the end. Schoolwork and real life things have me too busy to spare much time for writing, and when I do write, I need it to be for more real-life venues. I've been looking for a way to finish up this collection once and for all a while now, and ending it on a special three-parter seemed like the right way to go._

_I'd like to thank my lovely, lovely reviewers for sticking with me this whole time, especially:_

_Malvolia: Haven't seen you around in a while, but I loved your in-depth reviews while they lasted. Thank you so much for taking the time to read and reply._

_Ani Sparrow: I've loved your reviews, and loved talking to you over PM. Keep up with your own stories, too!_

_Badkidoh: You've stuck with me through every chapter since chapter 2. I don't know how I'll ever repay you, but I can truthfully say that I have appreciated it very much, and have looked forward to your comments every time._

_Everyone else: You guys rock. No, seriously._

_I'll still be hanging around, reading if not writing, so I hope to see more stories by all of you in the near future!_

_Love,_

_- Snow_

_P.S.: If you haven't guessed yet, april fools!_


	17. Madness

_Did you see what they did there at the end of the episode? I cannot WAIT for the finale! Anyway. Wrote this really quickly, so it might be error-filled. Will fix tomorrow. Man, crazy-Sylar is fun._

_Takes place during "I Am Sylar"_

_

* * *

_

Little things keep changing.

It's not just his appearance, either, it's not just what he sees when he looks into the mirror, it's everything. It's the way his hands never feel quite right when the fingers are too short or too long. It's the feeling of bone shifting and rearranging whenever he loses control and starts to shift, just a little. It's memories that aren't his- no, he isn't crazy, he knows where they come from, they're from objects and people who he's touched and he's _not crazy, okay?_- that sometimes play around in the back of his head.

It's feelings. It's the way that he never seems to feel pain, physically at least. There's plenty of pain inside. Plenty of trouble. Nothing good. He can feel pleasure, for brief moments at least, but then they're replaced by much longer periods of bad things, uncertainty, fear even. But he's _Sylar_. Why should he ever be afraid?

Saying that used to work. It doesn't anymore. Maybe that's because he's not Sylar anymore, sometimes at least. Sometimes he's Taub. Someone different. He likes that, for brief moments at least, but that makes it all the worse when he comes back to his senses because Taub is _not special_. And special is all Sylar has left.

Danko used to get on his nerves, but now the man is nothing but a constant. He obeys or ignores, depending on his mood. He lets the agent give little spiels about losing identity (like this is just an identity crisis- he could almost laugh!), and values him only for the quality of his watch. He likes watches. Nothing wrong with that (right?). Of course.

The man has one good idea, anyway- an anchor. Something to remind him who he is. Something more permanent than lines on his skin (no, no, permanent marker won't cut it, stop making jokes). He thinks, first, his mother. Not the one who died first. Who is she? Nothing special.

(Not that he really believes that.)

The other one. Mother. Ambitious. Slightly off, always. He hadn't really grasped that fully, before, had he? But she hasn't changed at all, she's still avoiding the issues at hand and obsessing over _such_ trivial things. Death hasn't changed her a bit (does it seem wrong that he's talking to her? Is she alive or is he imagining this or is it all in his head?)

He talks to himself. A lot. Or to her. (It doesn't really make a difference, which face he wears, which voice he uses).

He can't really think straight anymore.

He thinks- maybe he's paranoid, but people seem to be trying to control him, manipulate him, (he doesn't like that). Even little boys. Even meaningless, powerless people. He can't tell for sure anymore. But he suspects. He can't trust anyone.

Almost anyone.

He's met a lot of people (certainly he remembers the number, but reciting it would just be depressing), hasn't he? Most of them liars, to themselves if not to him. Most of them worthless. One of them… not.

He needs an anchor, because sometimes he thinks (he knows) that maybe, if he's not careful, he'll lose control (he already has), and he can't stand the thought of that. He needs someone close to him. Someone who can accept him for himself (not Gabriel, Gabriel's gone, not a good guy, that won't work). And the only person he can think of would probably (98% probability) never do so, but he can't think of anyone else.

His father will die alone. He won't die. But he will be alone. Unless.

Claire Bennet.

(He likes saying her name. How long has he liked that?)

She's special. He clings to that fact. He's lost a sense of special, but he just _knows _that she still is, and maybe, maybe that can lead him back. He needs someone to talk to. (Someone who won't run away.) Trust. Good things. (She'll hate him.) He'll deal.

He's not crazy, alright? And he's going to stop talking to himself now, because surely, surely the cheerleader will show up soon. She always does. And he wants to save the talking. For her.


	18. Proposal

_Because dangit, I can't wait an entire week to find out what's going to happen._

_(Maybe) takes place during An Invisible Thread_

* * *

He's definitely convinced, now, that the madness is on the retreat. And- he can just tell- it's all thanks to her.

It's a shame that Claire is still so… misguided. She's been led onto all the wrong paths by her family, and has developed all sorts of strange ideas as a result. But that's alright, he can show her the right path again. He can help her along; forcefully, if necessary.

Still, it's a little bit worrying that, when he first releases control of her jaw, the first words she says could be classified as profanity.

He flicks his fingers to snap her jaw shut again, then leans closer to frown at her mockingly. Her eyes are glaring, not even daggers, but _machetes _at him, which is terribly fascinating. His frown twitches back into a smile. "Now, Claire, we won't make any progress if you won't cooperate."

She lets out a noise that's half between a growl and a sigh- he's only letting her throat move so much. Maybe she's agreeing with him. Why not, he'll go with that. He lets her go again, her entire head this time, so she can turn it to face him.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" she manages to splutter as soon as she's (somewhat) free.

"Talking." His smile is still in place. Surprisingly, he's realizing that he'd actually missed her constant back-talk. "About you. You ought to be flattered."

She looks away, rolling her eyes. "And your creepiness factor has just gone up to a whole new level."

Hell, he'd missed _her_, too.

"Come on, Claire, it's better this way." He wanders over to the set of cabinets nearby, idly picking up a decanter. "I could be out there, obtaining more powers… killing more people… you know, your father really ought to be dead right now."

She doesn't even need to ask which one; he supplies the answer for her. "Bennet, I mean. Not bio-daddy. Though Nathan hardly deserves his powers in the first place."

"Keep your mouth off my family," she growls, turning her head back towards him.

"Family?" He actually laughs. "They're fractured, Claire. Broken. I doubt even I could fix them anymore. They won't be a family for much longer."

He half-expects her to cry, but she starts cussing him out again instead, surprising another laugh out of him. He wanders back over, sliding the decanter onto the table. Wonders what he could possibly say that would shut her up. And, as always, comes up with the obvious answer- the truth.

"Have you ever stopped to think about how much we have in common, Claire?"

The stream of curses abruptly stops, punctuated by a sharp "_Nothing._"

"Don't play stupid." He casually reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, which he thinks is quite considerate, seeing as she can't do it herself. She looks a little ill. "We're both immortal, for one thing."

"I am not having this conversation with you." She pauses, looks away. "And I gave you that, anyway."

"Both stubborn," he continues. "Both cold-blooded killers- you know you are, given the opportunity."

Surprisingly, he's now managed to put tears in her eyes, though whether they're from sadness or anger or just embarrassment, he can't tell. He nudges her shoulder. The tears abruptly stop as she flinches away.

"Both adopted," he says quietly. "Both betrayed by our own parents."

She shakes her head, looking away.

"Face it, Claire." He pops the cork out of the bottle and pours wine into both glasses, enjoying the sight of Claire's face going from annoyed to flabbergasted. "You and I were made for each other."

There's silence for a few beats, as he pushes a glass towards her and picks up his own. Claire's mouth is opening and closing, like she wants to say something but can't find the words. He'd like to think that she's speechless from delight, but he's not an idiot. He kind of ruined her life in the past. It will take a while to fix things again.

"… well then." She swallows. "You've obviously gone crazy." Claire pauses, and then frowns. "Or, at least, crazy in a more obvious way?"

He considers, sipping at his wine, and then smiles. "Nah."

"You- you just- let me go, okay?" She starts struggling against her invisible bonds again, until he sighs and tightens them. "You already have my power, and I don't want to have _anything_ else to do with you!"

Intriguingly, a shiver runs up his spine at her last sentence. She's lying. And that's _fascinating_. So he taps a finger against the side of his head. "Built-in lie detector, remember?"

Cheerleader looks good in red. He had noticed that fact long before, though it was in a much different situation- he has to admit, however, that blushing cheeks are far more appealing than a blood-soaked forehead.

"That, well- that has nothing to do with- stop _smiling!_"

Sylar is starting to get bored of this game of cat-and-mouse, so he decides to cut to the chase. "Say what you want. However, you have to realize- you're immortal. I'm immortal. We're both going to be stuck on this world for quite a while. Do you really want to spend that entire time afraid of me?"

"I'm not afraid of you," she snaps, her words venomous. "I _hate_ you."

He raises an eyebrow, sipping at the wine again. "Hate, hmm? Strong emotion, that one. I'll settle for it, for now."

"And you can just take your- what?" She blinks, looking confused.

"As long as you hate me, right now, I'm satisfied," he continues, cheerful. "It will keep you from forgetting me."

"You're insane," she whispers.

"We have all the time in the world," he reminds her. "You can't hate me forever, Claire. That hate will turn into something else, someday. I can wait."

"Something else?" she says, scornful. "Like what? Nausea?"

He doesn't say anything- he just puts down his glass and reaches out again, gently runs his thumb over her cheek. She doesn't flinch away, this time, she just stares him down, and her eyes show hurt and confusion and anger and so many wonderfully complex emotions. She's so much more interesting than a watch.

"Consider it," he says quietly, seriously. "Don't have to give an answer now- just someday."

Of course, that's exactly the moment that the Petrelli brothers burst into the room, ready to save the day and rescue their golden-haired princess. Sylar leaps to his feet, gathering up electricity in his hands, but overall, he's still pleased.

Because he knows- and when Sylar knows, he _knows_- that she'll come around someday.


	19. Precisely

_The finale was pretty interesting, but a little disappointing, too. Though I'm eager to see how decide to bring him back!_

_Oh, and by the way? You guys are too nice. I love you to death. :)  
_

_Takes place after An Invisible Thread  
_

* * *

Claire's first thought upon realizing that Nathan was actually Sylar was precisely this: You son of a bitch, I am going to kill you with my own hands and watch you bleed on the floor.

Or, you know. Something along those lines.

Because honestly, there wasn't a moment of realization. There was just a general suspicion, and tiny little details that were hard to get right, even for her real biological father. So there was a part of her mind that was happy and eager and trusted Nathan completely, even as a different part was quite convinced that she was walking arm-in-arm with the serial killer she hated the most.

And anyway, she was doing so much plotting that there was no real time for personal things. She had many, many different paths of action figured out. What she would do if the Secret Service stopped them; how she would recognize if one of the nameless henchmen was Sylar in disguise; what she would say if her father called her in the middle of meeting with the president; etc, etc.

Of course, Nathan was having none of it. "You look tense, Claire," he said with a fond little smile, slinging an arm over her shoulder as they sat in the back of the taxi.

A part of her mind said: Take your hand off me, you filthy monster, and don't you dare look at me like that.

Her mouth said: "I'm fine, dad."

* * *

Claire's first thought upon seeing herself standing where Nathan had been before was precisely this: Damn it, I need to listen to my instincts more often.

It was a little bit hard to figure out exactly what she wanted to think next, since so much of her mind was devoted to fighting against the invisible threads that jerked her limbs and body back and forth, trying to make herself move, even just twitch of her own volition.

Claire (on the other side of the room) smiled and raised her eyebrows with a familiar, condescending little twitch. Claire found herself tossing the cell phone over to her mirror image, despite the furious raging that was going on in her mind. She found herself nearly boiling over in anger as Sylar snapped open the phone and answered it in just the tone of voice she would have used.

She also found herself making connections. No wonder Nathan had been acting so much touchier and more friendly- it wasn't Nathan at all, it was Sylar being a _creep_. That made a lot more sense.

What it didn't explain was why he had decided to take her along in the first place- but she figured that she was about to find out.

* * *

Claire's first thought upon hearing Sylar's proposal was precisely this: What. The. Hell.

"Are you…" she stared at him for a moment, for once not even caring that she couldn't move her head. "Are you seriously asking me—"

"Yeah." He grinned at her. Would it be overkill to call him a crazy psycho?

She wanted to say that she was only seventeen for crying out loud, not to mention how she had refused to ever get into politics and, besides, _she hated his guts._ Instead, she found herself saying, "and when did you decide to do this?"

"About…" he closed his eyes briefly. "Fifteen minutes and twenty-four seconds ago, when you called me out for writing with my left hand."

She didn't care if it _was_ redundant. From now on, she would address him as You Crazy Psycho.

"Of course, I've been keeping an eye on you for far longer than that. You see, Claire," he continued patiently, "you are _exactly_ what I need. You notice things, and you even fend for yourself. We'll make a great team."

Once he'd let go of his control over her mouth again (he kept doing that, freezing it shut while he was talking so she couldn't contradict him), she snapped. Just a little. "You- you, You Crazy Psycho, are the _last_ person I'd ever ma- you are out of your _mind_, and I swear the first chance I get I am going to make sure that you _die_. Painfully." That didn't feel like enough, and he was just watching her with mild interest, so she continued. "You can say we're alike all you want but you're _wrong_, and I don't know how you've deluded yourself into thinking that you l- that you want anything from me, but I'll tell you right now that _will you stop looking at me like that?_"

His look of placid interest melted into a smile as he twitched his fingers to shut her mouth again. "You know, I'd be tempted to kiss you if I didn't think you'd just use the opportunity to bite."

_Crazy Psycho_.

"Besides-" suddenly, he flinched a little bit, perking one ear up. "And here comes Team Super. Don't worry, Claire. We'll continue this conversation later." He looked back at her for a moment, and there was something odd about that look that she just couldn't place (or maybe it was how he leaned forward a little bit, or how he briefly rested his hand on hers), but then she was flying through the air, out through the doors, and crashing into the wall.

From that point on, everything felt like a blur, except one important detail- when she tried to get back into the room, she couldn't open the doors. But that couldn't have been Nathan or Peter's doing.

Obviously, he was afraid of her. He didn't want her to help the others.

Or- said the little dissenting voice in the back of her head- he didn't want her to get hurt.

* * *

Claire's first thought upon hearing that Sylar was dead was precisely this: Good riddance.

Her second was: But, of course, they're wrong. He's _Sylar._ He never dies.

So she did spy work. She looked into the files her father wrote up. She questioned the others on the sly, carefully, snuck around to listen in on conversations (and got on Matt Parkman's nerves extensively in the process). Her result was- nothing.

Then, her next thought was: He's fooled them again. I'll have to be extra careful, keep an eye out, make sure I'm prepared when he next jumps out of the shadows.

Only then, they brought out the body. Burned it, with a bunch of them standing around to watch. Burned it until there was nothing left but ash. She still didn't quite believe it. But it really did seem like she was running out of other options.

So then she thought: Of course I'm upset. It's very upsetting to find out that they found a way around my power after all, that's all. I'm just used to feeling invulnerable.

Yeah. That was a good reason to have.

* * *

Claire's first thought when her father figured out that she was researching Sylar in her free time was precisely this: Well, at least he can't ground me.

"I just don't want to see you grow obsessed, Claire-bear," he said softly, sitting next to her on the bed and rubbing her shoulder. She could almost snort. _He _was the one who had been obsessed with Sylar in the past.

"I'm fine, Dad. Really." She smiled up at him. "I just… didn't get closure, I guess. It's weird to think that he's gone."

He shrugged. "Better than for him to still be here."

It's strange. He always acted so casual about it. Almost too casual.

It's sad that she couldn't even trust her father anymore.

* * *

Claire's first thought upon picking up a shirt her biological mother had given her when searching for a lost purse was precisely this: He _burned._

She dropped the shirt without thinking, just stared into space and frowned. Had they stuck something in the back of his head? She couldn't remember seeing anything. And if he'd just been in a coma, burning wouldn't have done anything, he would've survived.

And maybe it was obsessive, but she really wanted to ask her father if they had taken any videos of it, just to make sure. She didn't want mistakes to happen. That was all.

"Claire, what's taking you so long?"

Well, she would ask later, anyway. Claire turned and smiled distractedly at Nathan, who was leaning on her doorframe, tapping his foot impatiently. Her biological father had decided to start spending more time with her in an effort to solidify their relationship, and they would go out for lunch together at least once a week. She had actually grown to tolerate him, with time. Though he tended to get really fuzzy on the subject of a certain deceased serial killer.

"Just a minute," she replied, nudging the shirt under her dresser with her foot and grabbing her second-favorite purse from the closet door. And, because it was still bugging her, she asked, "Hey, do you remember what we eventually killed Sylar with?"

Unlike her father and Angela and, okay, everyone else, Nathan never got annoyed when she started asking questions about Sylar. He just always got confused. "Huh. I'm not sure, Claire. You'd probably have to ask your father about that."

She resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "I'll try."

* * *

Claire's first thought upon realizing that Nathan was actually Sylar was precisely this: He healed.

Because he did. She had accidentally dropped her glass at the diner's table, sending shards of it flying across the table, a few of which stuck into his arm, but when he pulled them out, he _healed_.

Her second thought was slightly more confusing: Thank _God_.

Then, of course, she had to go into the tricky business of figuring out exactly why she was happy that Sylar was apparently still alive. And then she had to start wondering where Nathan actually was.

Sylar, on the other hand, had his own problems. "That's not my power," he said slowly, staring in great confusion at the pink skin that had formed over the cut. "That's… Claire, that's your power. Why do I have your power?"

It was then that Claire realized that things were much trickier than she'd first assumed.

(She also realized that she needed to give her father a good tongue-lashing. But. Not as important.)

"Sy- Nathan," she said hurriedly, "have you been feeling like yourself lately?"

He looked at her oddly, eyebrows angling in a way that Nathan's _never_ had (God, how had she been so _stupid?_). "Funny that you should ask that. I have been feeling quite… off, lately." He frowned abstractly, his eyes wandering over to the ornamental clock placed in the corner of the room. "Mom's been asking about it, too."

She would need to give Angela a piece of her mind as well, then. But later. After she'd fixed this mess.

And it wasn't weird at all that she knew, without a doubt, that she had to get Sylar back.


	20. Adrenaline

_Sorry this is so late, I… don't really have an excuse. Hmm.  
_

_Inspired by the video on Youtube called "Heroes - Sylar and HRG - Circus". I would link to it, but the document uploader is being silly. Go and watch it- seriously! It's absolutely amazing._

-

The first time Gabriel saw the blood on his hands, it terrified him.

It hadn't happened like in the movies. It wasn't like his mind blanked out, or like he lost control, he had known _exactly_ what he'd been doing. But he hadn't really been himself. He'd been too focused, too determined, too sure. He'd been too intent on finding out _how_ it was supposed to work to really realize that he was ki-

Even thinking the word made him gag.

So Gabriel washed his hands. Washed them again and again, scrubbing furiously until tiny cuts and scrapes he hadn't noticed before started to bleed. Tried to think that it was poetic. Could only really consider it hygienic.

And most of all, he vowed that it wouldn't happen again. Maybe some small, insistent part of his mind just thought this was all interesting, but he couldn't take another's life again. He'd honestly prefer to die.

-

The second time Gabriel came back to himself enough to feel blood trickling down his fingers, all he could feel was shock.

He thought (rather dully) that it was probably the trauma. Too much had happened at once, with the powers and Elle and the irresistible urge to find out _how it worked_. He couldn't even bring himself to feel guilty. He could only feel… relieved. Which was disgusting, and wrong, because he knew perfectly well what he had just done. It was morally wrong, it was despicable, but it had been instinct. He hadn't wanted to, not really. It had just… happened.

But the worst part of all was that a tiny little part of him was _glad_. Gleeful at this new power he possessed. Curious, and anxious, and demanding that he try it out. And despite the shock, despite his scrambling efforts to pretend that that hadn't just happened, he still knew that he had to suppress that gladness. It wasn't right. It was _sick._

He ran outside- he wasn't sure where to- just to feel a breeze through his hair, ordinary honking and screeching from the traffic outside, to calm himself down. Ordinary life, he had to _make _it good enough. Somehow.

When he finally got back home, he saw the dull red handprint he'd inadvertently made on his door, and nearly fainted.

-

The third time he pulled his hands away to examine the blood that had stained them, he figured out that he could pretend it wasn't there. If he didn't look at it again, he could tell himself that it was paint, or water. He didn't have to feel wracked with guilt while searching for a sink.

That was a relief. When there was no guilt to intervene, he could concentrate on internalizing the power, adapting to it, making it part of himself. And that was the only good part of it all, playing with a new power- it always had such a spark. A special little tingle.

The first power, his telekinesis? It had never lost that unique feeling, and he still used it whenever it could. But he had gotten bored of the shattering after a few days. It wasn't very useful, and it definitely wasn't adaptable. He had found himself, then, thirsting for a new power, like it was a toy, a novelty. He had tried to repress that hunger, but after a week or so, he didn't want to stop it anymore. He craved it, needed it, to the point where it didn't even matter what kind of power it was.

And the blood on his hands was just a side effect of that.

He hoped.

-

After a while, he lost track of the numbers. It wasn't that important anymore; blood was blood. And he got much more disgusting fluids on his hands half the time.

It wasn't the blood that mattered, anyway, it was the hunt. Tracking down the most useful, most entertaining powers. Bringing them in. Figuring out exactly what made his victim tick. It was the most exciting game, and there was nothing like a good chase to give him a burst of energy that could leave him flying high.

Killing- to obtain powers- was becoming a drug for him, he sometimes abstracted. An obsession. Maybe a problem, but much more likely a reason to keep going, keep searching. He didn't have a choice, for that matter. People had started noticing the… murders. Patterns were being found. He couldn't go back home.

But of course, he was keeping a hold on his sanity. He was keeping a clear divide between the killing and the powers, he often told himself. One was just a necessity, the other the thing he really craved. And, as long as he could remember that difference, he wasn't _really_ a murderer. More like… a collector.

A collector of rare and supernatural powers who culminated each find by slicing open a head or two.

Yeah.

-

Then… he visited the Walkers.

It was supposed to be simple. He had planned on walking into the house, waiting until the rest of the family was out of sight, and only then taking the man's power. But he had stumbled upon the man's wife, and she had had nearly jumped out of her skin in shock… and… he had liked that. It had sent a surge of energy running up through his spine, to be caught off guard like that. It had been… fun.

Sylar was discovering that he _liked_ this kind of fun.

So he made it a game, to terrify the couple. And, for the first time, he killed someone just for show. The woman didn't have a power, but she was in the way, and, and, he _wanted_ to. That was all.

He was disappointed in the man, though. He hadn't put up much of a fight (even though Sylar _had_ frozen him in place right away). It had been all too easy to kill him, and Sylar vented his anger at that by trying out the new power on its original owner, even before he washed the blood off his hands. And it helped; at least, a little. There was a beautiful smell of irony about it.

But… he wanted _more._

-

He returned to the scene of the crime, briefly, hidden in the background, to see what the police thought of his little game, and realized in doing so what he'd been missing all along.

An audience.

It was unusually gratifying to watch expressions of horror unfold on their faces, to listen to their muted whispers as they tried to figure out how it had been done. He felt something warm in his chest that hadn't been there in quite a while- pride. It was a heady feeling. It made him want to go out and find another power, very soon, so he could make an even bigger display, a more impossible one, to give them something to really marvel at-

And Sylar caught himself.

He wasn't going to cross his self-defined line. He killed for the powers, nothing else. He wasn't just a serial killer, he had a _purpose_. Okay? Okay.

-

Time passed, and the once-squeamish Gabriel Gray became accustomed to many things he'd never even thought of before. Sylar wasn't afraid of blood; in fact, he welcomed it. Blood was a sign of victory. Dried blood under his fingernails served as a happy reminder of powers well won. And kills- but he never thought about that (directly, at least).

It was blood that figured in life-or-death situations so many times, blood that held answers and questions, blood with which he traced patterns on the floor. His own blood that taunted him with his mere morality at first- and then, later, that reminded him of never-ending life.

But he still washed his hands so very carefully after each encounter. It gave him a sense of finality, closure. It gave him time to think over what had happened, his good moments and (few) mistakes. And, most of all, it gave him a chance to reflect on his 'performance', to bask in success.

Maybe that was why he needed to know, so desperately, who else shared the blood that flowed through his veins.

-

_Warning: EXCESSIVE bragging to follow_

Since this is my 20th oneshot in this collection, I thought it'd be interesting to show you guys the stats this story has been getting.

**Views: **Over 12,000 total. Each individual part has at least two hundred, and the first chapter has nearly three thousand.

**Traffic:** Highest traffic reported was on April 28th, when the story got 685 views total. That was right after I released chapter 19 (high traffic was definitely due to the finale). Typically, a new part will get around 2-3 hundred views on the first day for the story overall.

**Length:** The longest oneshot currently in this is slightly over 2000 words, and the shortest has about 500.

**Also: **With this oneshot added, the collection should be at 20,000 words exactly... except that the word count apparently just went nuts. Oh well.

Enjoy. :)


	21. The Way Things Work

_I wrote this a while ago, then forgot about it. It's a little bit ruined by some things we found out last season, as I was making incorrect assumptions at the time. Oh well. I've fixed it up and added a bit, and now present it to you to apologize for my relative inactivity right now._

_Written during the Sylar/Luke arc. Takes place near the end of season three._

* * *

There's only so much a human's body can hold.

Powers, abilities, gifts, curses: they go by many names, but they all represent one thing. An evolution, a mutation, in the human genome, sometimes natural, otherwise forcefully inflicted. A tiny percent of the brain's capability, unlocked, given free range. Possibilities abound. They create miracles- they create monsters.

In the natural case, a single power will grow in a human's body from the day they are born, though it does not appear until a need arises. It is always there, so it is not an intruder, and cannot cause harm. It is like breathing, to hold fire in one's hand or see into the future. It is natural.

But sometimes, it is not.

There are abilities that work differently, powers which represent the evolutionary instinct to the highest extent. Power Absorption. Ability Replication. Empathetic Mimicry. Intuitive Aptitude. We know of these; there are probably hundreds more.

For individuals who naturally possess these abilities, life is a mixture of heaven and hell. It is wonderful to know that the possibility for growth is not checked, that there are no bounds to what a person can learn, but the question must eventually arise- how much can a simple human body take?

A woman who can run at impossible speeds will develop impossibly strong leg muscles and unusually padded feet, to keep wear and tear of her body to a minimum. A man who can use telepathy will, from a young age, form mental blocks that protect him from a constant barrage of language and emotions, not just from humans, but from animals, any living creatures. When an ability is natural, the body adapts to suit it.

When the ability is stolen, learned, borrowed, these changes must take place impossibly fast. They still take time (a day? a week? years, even, before full control is gained?), but there are noticeable changes, noticeable effects.

Let us look at the case of one Gabriel Gray, known as Sylar. A dangerous individual, to be sure, and one who must take new abilities through force. And, in conjunction with this case, let us look at rapid cellular regeneration.

Gray has gained many abilities (the full list not yet known), and the effects they have on each other are intriguing to examine. In original holders of his healing power (see Adam Munroe, Claire Bennet), it works solely on physical aspects of a human, leaving all else alone, as should be expected. Let us now look briefly at enhanced memory, which works directly both with the physical and more abstract aspects of the mind, unlocking new capabilities and changing how information is stored.

What happens when the two are combined? Will they complement each other? Will they combine, to form something new?

Will it only be new memories that are kept forever, or can old ones be restored, as well? Is the mind a computer, with some of the memory corrupted- can a healing ability rush through its hard drive, restoring what was once lost, mixing mechanics with biology to result in something like magic? Can this happen on its own, an instantaneous reaction, or is a trigger needed? If the corrupted memory is accessed, will the healing ability only then set in? And when an onslaught of childhood memories begins, can it ever end?

Here, I will insert my own hypothesis, constructed from personal observations and experiences. _Man is no machine_. Humans are impossible to predict precisely, unlike computers; there is always some margin of error. Emotions interfere. Unknown factors influence decisions. Even the best psychologist can never be one hundred percent sure of her diagnosis, not because of a flaw in her reasoning, but merely because she can never be one hundred percent sure of her patient. We are an emotional species, and often an irrational one. Spontaneous. Adaptable.

Now, returning to the question of mixtures of powers. What if these abilities conflict, rather than combine? Take the case of cellular regeneration again, and combine it with shapeshifting. One strives to keep the body in the same physical state forever, the other works to change the shape, shifting bones and organs into a new frame. Sheer force of will may keep one ability at bay while the procedure is done, but for how long can a frame take such stress? How long before it deteriorates, falls apart?

These are not rhetorical questions.

This is not a game.

-- REBEL


	22. Secrets

_Guess what's back, back again? __Special__'s back- tell a friend!_

_Um, yeah. Sorry for disappearing on you guys over the summer. But now Season 4 is starting, and, well, I for one am excited about it! Speaking of which, the Comic Con sneak peak looks badass. This oneshot was the result of a few of the lines from it. Watch as it gets demolished tomorrow night._

* * *

Nathan keeps many, many secrets.

_(Sylar keeps none.)_

He lives the life of a politician; it's practically part of the job description. He lies on a daily basis, he pays people to change numbers, he spreads rumors on purpose, arranges to have them started. It's a dirty, nasty job, but he's good at it, and he does manage to produce some good, change the world if he wants to talk clichés. But he loses track of these secrets, he has so many of them. He loses track of who knows what… and who should have been told.

Lately, he's decided that he regrets these secrets. He doesn't like the feeling that he's a different person to different people- he just wants to be himself. One Nathan Petrelli. That shouldn't be so hard. He should _know_ who he is.

_(He should know...)_

Except he still sometimes gets confused.

_(He __**would**__ know, if he wasn't trapped.)_

He can't fix the things directly related to his career, since that would involve several situations that would get him arrested many, many times over, and he can't go to jail. But he can fix personal things. Problems with Heidi, and Tracy, and his mother and Peter and Claire and… and the list just goes on for forever, the people he's wronged, for no reason other than his own benefit. It makes him sick. It makes him wonder how he could do such things in the first place.

_(Murder, now, murder is clean, as long as it has a straightforward purpose…)_

He tries to fix these problems, uncover these secrets. But things, they only get worse, he only gets more and more disgusted by himself as places, as objects jog memories that he had misplaced entirely. Like Kelly. Kelly, who he hasn't thought about in years and years, so bright and young. Kelly, who trusted him. Kelly, who died.

And people are disgusted by him. People react when he tells them these things. People don't want to know the truth.

… he has the feeling that he's had this revelation before …

Besides, he's starting to develop new secrets, ones that he can't share. For example, his office seems to have a strange problem with static electricity. Static electricity… which is blue. And seems to generate itself from his hands.

That, and paper cuts disappear in seconds. And if he thinks too hard about it, objects will move before he touches them. And he can't walk into his office and listen to the chatter without feeling several different tingles run down his spine.

_(Lies, lies, these government employees are all about lying. It's sickening. It's _boring_.)_

But these things, they feel natural, even if they have nothing to do with flight. It doesn't feel like they should stay a secret. They're a part of him. Why should others mind? He can't come up with a good reason.

_(He's earned them, damn it, and he won't hide them.)_

And his mother, she's acting so strangely, asking so many questions, he can't trust her anymore.

_(He never could.)_

And he doesn't like who he is right now. He wants to be somebody new.

He wants a chance to be... reborn.


	23. Voices In My Head

_Takes place sometime after Jump, Push, Fall. _

_

* * *

_

"You're not real, you're not even Sylar, and I want you _out of my head_."

Aww. Matt Parkman is in denial. How cute.

Sylar leans against the wall- well, not really. It's complicated, you see. He doesn't exist in the physical world, at the moment, only the mental one. Luckily, Matt Parkman's mind is a haven for anything mental; his powers extend far beyond what the man himself knows. It makes Sylar's fingers itch. It makes him want to find a way, somehow, to acquire--

But first, there's something he has to do. Something he needs returned.

Matt Parkman's mind is a fascinating place. The majority of it reflects what the man is currently seeing and hearing, impressions overlying everything, warping reality. Fears and thoughts. Suspicions. There's an extra layer that would be other thoughts from other people, expressed as clearly as if they had been spoken aloud, but those are muffled and tucked away into corners. He's trying to not use his powers, and Sylar thinks that that's stupid. Why would anyone want to be ordinary, when they could be so much more?

Sylar's an intuitive thinker (duh), so he had figured out in little time how to step from subconscious thoughts into Parkman's conscious impressions, what passes through his mind between _seeing_ and _noticing_. He waited, though, until he had learned more, learned how to warp other things in Matt Parkman's 'real world'. As for how best to hit him, well, that was obvious. There's two things that lie foremost in Matt Parkman's mind- his son and his wife. His wife, she talks too much. His son…

Well. Sometimes the obvious choice is the best one.

"Of course I'm real," he replies, chuckling slightly. His laugh has an edge to it, not surprising, he's been living in another guy's _mind_ for the past so many weeks. "Do you think I'm the bogeyman, Matt? Just a nightmare, haunting you? Please. You aren't that special."

Matt Parkman winces, which makes Sylar smile. The man's got many self-confidence issues; he thinks he's fat, and ugly, and suspects that he isn't the quickest on the uptake. He's so easy to manipulate and scare. "C'mon. After what you did- I had nowhere else to go. Besides, your mind is _really, really_ boring. Do you really think I'd be here if I had another option?"

"Maybe."

Interesting answer. Sylar raises his eyebrows, mocking the policeman.

Matt Parkman doesn't care, though. Matt Parkman is pacing back and forth (in real life) while Sylar watches him. Not much else he can do, at this time, but watch and mock. "I- I've been thinking," Parkman begins.

"Oh, _wow_. Must've been a huge step for you, doing something that different."

"Shut up!" he snaps, before attempting to calm himself down again, and Sylar snickers. "You see- you being here. It doesn't make sense. Not, not with everything else that's going on."

Sylar knows what's 'going on', vaguely, at least. He knows that someone calls Parkman every so often, talks to him about something that makes him incredibly uncomfortable, but Matt blocks off his thoughts every time, so Sylar doesn't know the details. He's going to find out, though.

"You won't," Matt replies, absentmindedly, and Sylar almost jumps- had he said that out loud? He doesn't normally slip up that way. "I mean, you're only human, you can't exist in more than one place at once. You know- I had the best imaginary friends, when I was a kid. Incredibly complex, and with time, it could feel like they were talking on their own, no prompting, no set-up. Sometimes, it felt to me like they were more real than people I knew at school."

"So you heard voices as a kid." Sylar rolls his eyes. "My _God_, you even make lame jokes."

"But this- this feels exactly the same." Matt turns and glares right at him. It's kind of a pathetic image, but Sylar still doesn't like where this is going. "And back then, I could always make them go away. I think you're just like them… I think I can make you go away, too. You aren't Sylar at all. You're just a, a thought, a character, very much like him."

"I know exactly who I am," Sylar says quietly, coldly. "And I'm not going anywhere. Not until I get my body back."

But Parkman ignores him, and Parkman- does something, Sylar can't tell what. All he knows is that it pushes him away, back into the darker recesses of the telepath's mind, where he can't influence anything at all.

The policeman is wrong, damn it. He's Sylar, and- he's special, and- he doesn't usually have this much trouble coming up with witty and sarcastic comebacks. But it's probably just because he's stuck in this deadbeat mind. It's restrictive. There isn't room for growth.

But he's still real.

Of course he is.


	24. History

_We recognize the present__  
__is half as pleasant__  
__as our nostalgia for__  
__the past'll be presented__  
__re-cast and re-invented__  
__until it's how we meant it_

_

* * *

_

He really doesn't know what her problem is.

It's an unusual set of circumstances, nothing like the ones he's used to. It's a situation he can't easily figure out, a puzzle he can't automatically solve, and that makes it interesting- and frustrating. Enticing and aggravating. Everything comes with two sides, positive and negative, polar opposites.

That's how they're supposed to work, on that same note; she's the light side, he's the dark. Good and evil, innocence and maturity, naivety and experience- except at this point he has to stop kidding himself. Claire Bennett is not naive; quite the opposite. She sees far too much. She even sees things that he can't, apparently.

(Though, honestly, he's willing to blame that one on women in general).

"Look, I'm sorry if you were looking for me to cause a scene or something, but I've got my o-chem final tomorrow and world history the day after that _and_ far too many personal issues to deal with already, so this will just have to wait until I'm not running on four hours of sleep," the (ex-)cheerleader rants, pulling her hair out of its scrunchie and running a hand through the tangled blonde locks. It's sticking up in front at an odd angle, which makes his fingers itch.

"Well, _I_ think I've got a valid complaint," he retaliates, leaning carefully against her dorm room's wall. He doesn't particularly want to access this room's memories, as he doesn't trust these college students at all. "You thought I was dead, correct? Shouldn't this be a bit more… shocking?"

She had turned back to the explosion of papers that covered her desk once her rant was finished; she doesn't turn away from it now. "Nah. You've come back from the grave too many times now. I knew you'd show up here eventually- you just picked a hell of a week is all."

This is all undoubtedly fascinating, but he still doesn't believe it.

Claire grabs a bulky book from the miniature shelf above her desk, flipping through the pages until she reaches a bookmark, then starts scribbling something in the margins (to his intense annoyance). "Also, Angela called earlier. Seemed to think you'd turn up. She was mumbling something about rising from the grave and a huge catastrophe and burning someone named Millie at the stake- I didn't really pay attention."

Oh, right. He still needs to deal with that woman. Sylar clenches his hands into fists at the thought- damn Petrellis, always interfering. No question of where Claire got her stubborn streak from. Still he's going to focus on the present now... and the future, in a way. "It's the usual fiasco. Come on, Claire, stop beating around the bush. I know you haven't forgotten what we talked about last--"

"Drop it," she growls, finally glaring back up at him. He raises his hands in a mock surrender, grinning, and she huffs in annoyance. "Seriously! We are _not_ talking about that."

"And why not? It's only the logical course--"

"No. You know what?" She crosses her arms over her chest, still scowling. "I'm sick of people only trying to get close to me 'cause they want to sleep with me _or something stop looking at me like that._ I'm being serious! I mean, with Zach, he always seemed... and then West? And Alex? And now-- God! I just... I just want a friend."

Okay. Of all the sappy things that Sylar has heard in his life, this has to take the cake. Besides, he isn't sure why she's telling him all of this (who the hell are those people, anyway?), and with all the recent events that have happened, he wants to play it safe. So, instead of telling her to stop whining or just telekinetically shutting her mouth, he slides down the wall into a sitting position, rolling his eyes. "Uh-huh. Sorry, did I shape-shift into your therapist for a second there?"

"You have intuitive aptitude," she says, in an accusing tone of all things. "You oughta understand this stuff. Tell me what I'm doing wrong."

She wants him to fix her relationship issues? What, did he turn fluffy with a giant 'Let Me Help You' sign stuck to his head while playing Nathan? Unfortunately, the situation's gotten so far away from what he had anticipated that he can't think up a witty enough response, and he kind of wants to get on her good side. You know- for the future. "Shouldn't you be discussing this kind of nonsense with your roommate? Isn't that what college girls do?"

For some reason, she winces at the word 'roommate'. Sylar senses a story there, but he files it away for later.

"Whatever. It was stupid to think you'd help." She looks a bit disappointed as she turns back to her work, and he kind of wants to shake her. It's not like he's been any good at managing healthy relationships in the past- what the hell is he supposed to say?

"History."

She blinks, but doesn't look up. "What about it?"

"You said you've got a history exam." He gets up and wanders over to where she's sitting, reaching over her shoulder to pick up a textbook with the title 'Late Victorian Holocausts'. She leans away, but doesn't flinch or try to kill him. It's an improvement. "You know why they make you take history classes?"

"Because they like torturing us," she grumbles.

"So you can learn from the past." He waves the book in front of her, and she snatches it back. "So you don't make the same mistakes people have already explored. You've been good about learning from mistakes in things related to your power, from what I've seen. Just apply that to your life outside of... all of this."

She chews on her lower lip for a moment or two, then looks up at him. "You're speaking from experience, aren't you?"

He shrugs, stepping back to sit in an empty chair. Sylar watches her silently as she goes back to scrawling long chains of molecules into the margin of her paper. Well. It doesn't hurt to try new things.

"Chemistry, huh?"

The scratching of pencil against paper pauses, then resumes. "Yeah. I was thinking about going into medicine."

"... you would." He smiles. "After all, then you can blame your eternal health on good eating and healthy habits, and drive all of your patients nuts."

She tells him to shut up, but she bites back a grin while saying it. And he thinks that he could get used to this.

* * *

_Today marks one entire year since I started this collection of oneshots. Time flies, doesn't it? So, on this anniversary, I'd like to thank you, the readers. I've grown as a writer thanks to this fic, and I never would've continued it if it weren't for all of you. You guys are the best, especially the reviewers- you always make me smile. So, thank you! =)_

_Also, in terms of credit, the lyrics at the top are from the song "Testing 1, 2, 3" by Barenaked Ladies. It's been my theme for whimsical-mood Sylar for a while now. Kind of fit the ideas for this piece, so I stuck it in._


	25. Risen

_Takes place during Hysterical Blindness_

_

* * *

_

Nathan Petrelli died that night, died from a shotgun wound. Several bullets in the chest. Instantly fatal. If it hadn't been, the dirt that piled over him immediately afterward would have caused suffocation, filled up his lungs. No mortal could survive such a fate.

Therefore, the individual who emerged from the ground was not mortal at all.

At first, there were- there were overwhelming colors and images in the back of his vision which he couldn't call vision at all, really, unless it was actually occurring in front of his eyes. But, but the visions, they were _horrible._ Frightening beyond anything this individual wanted to experience. He thrust them away, on instinct. They couldn't be real. He didn't want them to be real. He'd hide from them, so that they wouldn't be.

So he sat on the ground, hair hanging limply over his face, shuddering and rocking back and forth until the pictures gradually retreated, away from his mind, his haven. And then, he sat there, he sat there and- thought.

His first solid thought, which he instantly identified as cliched and not to be tolerated at all, was simply: _Who Am I?_

Stupid question. Simple question. Question... which he couldn't answer.

The individual trembled as he reached a hand out in front of his eyes, examining the dirt that streaked over his fingers. He was this body, these thoughts. That would be enough. For now. Maybe.

With the first question pushed aside, if not answered, a million more started to throw themselves at him, asking _why_ and _how _and _what am I supposed to do._ He needed to know the answers to them all, he had a craving for it, a craving to understand that gripped him tightly and refused to let go. He couldn't- couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't answer- so he ran.

It wasn't really running, not the way he defined it. It was a shuffling walk that he forced himself into. It was movement, though. He could pretend that that was progress. And the open surface that he walked on (_road_, his mind filled in for him), it was easy to see and something that he couldn't distinguish the end of. He could even look at the sky overhead, when he stayed on this road. Progress.

The individual discovered that he had an active mind. It refused to be captivated by one idea at a time... it strayed. But there was nothing safe to think about, only the past few memories that he _couldn't look at couldn't couldn't. _So he'd try to pull his attention back into observing the surroundings, and shivering. Rinse and repeat. What did that phrase mean?

And then, something new. Lights. Sounds. Another creature- another something like him.

At first, the sounds that the creature- no, man- made didn't make sense.

They were garbled, and harsh. He could tell that much. But- he couldn't associate them with meaning. Did they have meaning? Did anything have meaning, besides force and the bulky black object which had, which had shot things at him, and- _no, no_, the man had one too. The man was angry. The fact pushed itself upon him suddenly, making his eyes widen.

Slowly, too slowly, the words warped themselves into definitions. Ideas. Like his thoughts.

He put his hands up into the air carefully as soon as he had figured out what the man was saying, confused and scared and unsure of what to do. He just wanted help. He just wanted someone to tell him all of the answers, because he couldn't figure them out alone. He didn't want any more black objects pointed at him, no more sparks of pain and darkness, please.

The man pointed him towards the back of the large thing that was rumbling loudly and looked like a giant angry monster, but the man himself had come out of it so the individual deduced that it was safe, maybe. Safe enough to enter. Maybe the man would help him.

And then he stepped inside and remembered _bulky and enclosed and unable to escape and it smelled just like this oh God--_

-

When he came back to his senses- but had he ever been asleep?- he was no longer in the bulky monster object- car, he defined, remembering. He was somewhere else. He couldn't see properly through his hair, so he tried to shift it with his hands, but-

Clanking sounds. Coldness against his wrists. Restriction of movement. _Trapped_.

Instantly, panic.

Panic broke down the flimsy walls he had tried to build up against the visions, and he whimpered as they assaulted him again, relentless, allowing no escape. Pain and fear were all he'd been given so far. He wasn't sure that anything else existed, though he had a vague suspicion that they were supposed to.

But then there were people.

And they brought him questions.

He was scared by the questions, at first. The people tried to make him remember, tried to make him- actually think about the horrible, horrible- he didn't want to, couldn't. Bad enough that it was there at all.

But the smaller creature- woman- she was soft, insistent. She understood him, somehow. She promised to help. Promised to take care of him.

And- for the first time in his short, short existence- into this individual's life came hope.

* * *

_Spoilers following: hfkeghwigh last night's episode = LOVE LOVE LOVE. Sylar with amnesia and freaking out, brilliant (Zachary Quinto you are amazing). Interesting psychologist woman with a British accent interacting with Sylar, very intelligent and quietly creepy and some of the best writing I've seen on the show in a while. Samuel being shifty and awkward and some new circus members showcased, very fun. Invisible girl trying to separate Claire from others and willing to kill for it, totally unexpected but nicely done. Potential for Sylar and Claire to be in the circus at the same time = my Sylaire senses are tingling..._

_Ahem. Pardon my rambling. I'm just still very excited. Thank you for not sucking (much), Season Four. I am DEFINITELY writing several more shorts based around this episode. You can definitely expect two chapters that will go together, Questions and Answers, to go up sometime this week, and then maybe another piece about a possible future with the circus._

_Also, out of curiosity, are these crazy/amnesiac/twisted Sylar oneshots readable, or just so ramble-y that they're impossible to follow? They make sense to me, but that doesn't say anything about how sane they might be. =P_


End file.
